Dog of the Industry
by ForeverMATT
Summary: It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note:** Hey. Not sure what I'm gonna do with this, but the idea was planted and I had to do something with it. I'm open to ideas and constructive criticism. Should someone else be interested, I'm willing to co-author or allow this to be adopted. At any rate, I already have a few chapters pre-written, so... we'll just have to wait and see how it goes, I guess.

…

* * *

The laundromat was oddly deserted, but that was fine. The redheaded occupant preferred solitude. It was safer to be alone, by himself, in his own little personal bubble of protection... where nobody could harm him, lie to him, or blame him. He quite liked being alone, truth be told. And so, on a late Friday evening, when he stepped into the laundromat with a basket of sullied clothes and a pocket full of quarters, he was quite content to see that the entire place seemed void of humanity- save for a single dryer spinning, its port displaying mutli-colored towels swirling in the heated drum.

Heading to the back left corner, he set his basket down and proceeded to toss his clothes into the barrel of a washer before adding his preferred blend of detergent and fabric softener. Once that was done, he dropped in his quarters, set the old fashioned dials, and turned the machine on. In the eerily silent room, the sound of the water's spray seemed almost overbearing.

Mentally noting that he'd have to wait about an hour for the wash cycle to conclude, and then he'd have to use the dryer, he took a seat on a hard plastic chair and closed his eyes, deciding to partake a nap.

Eyes closed and ears tuned into the sound of swishing water, he couldn't possibly be bothered to register to soft sound of footsteps heading his way. The fresh scents of the detergent muddled his sense of smell and lulled him further into a state of relaxation.

He was borderline unconscious until a hand clapped over his eyes and a cold hard object was pressed against his temple. He stirred for only a moment- senses suddenly in overdrive; then a deep and unfamiliar voice washed over him with a sickeningly sweet tone.

_"Mail Jeevas,_ I've finally found you. You clever little shit, I bet you thought you could hide forever, but you can't!"

The redhead pursed his lips and tried to breathe evenly; he dared not show fear to this intimidating stranger.

"Now, Mail, I want you to close your eyes... and when I remove my hand, you will keep them closed until I say otherwise... Or, I will blow your mother fucking brains out." To emphasize his point, the stranger roughly smacked his gun across his victim's cheek.

"YOU FUCKIN' PISTOL-WHIPPED ME, YOU DICK!" The redhead shouted angrily, chest heaving as he felt blood rush around the point of impact.

"Mmm, good boy," the predator purred. "You can be as loud as you want because nobody will hear. But you still have to behave. And you're behaving so well- I've removed my hand, and your eyes are still closed." With that, he buried his face into the scarlet locks of his victim. "Such a good boy."

"Who are you, and what do you want with me?" Mail asked, gritting his teeth.

"Hn? Who am I? I'm afraid that's classified. As for what I want with you- well, you'll see." The stranger chuckled deeply, taking several strands of hair between his teeth and tugging playfully before releasing. "Just behave and keep your eyes shut, then I won't have to kill you."

"C-Can I at least get your name?" Mail asked feebly, eyes still closed as he bowed his head, trying to consider a way out of the situation.

"No, I won't give my name. But you can call me _Mello_."

"Mello..." Mail tested the name on his lips but ventured no further in terms of speaking. Anything he might have said died in his throat as he felt hot breath on the nape of his neck.

That breath grew into an intense heat before a set of chapped lips attached themselves to the redhead's flesh, kissing softly as a prelude to a rough bite as teeth dipped into the skin.

"Ahh, uhn... you... bit me," Mail rasped lamely, a shiver racking his body and goosebumps dotting a vast expansion of his flesh.

Mello simply pulled his lips back in a half-assed grin, teeth still embedded. Keeping his gun in one hand, he reached around the redhead and placed the other hand on a stripe-clad shirt. He felt the redhead's sculpted collarbone, pecs, and abs through the thin cotton fabric, letting his fingers reach under the hem of the shirt to circle around the indent of a navel.

This simple act drew a sharp gasp as Mail's hand caught Mello's forearm. "Mello..." he cautioned the name.

But Mello was relentless in his endeavor; his mind was made up. He harshly drew his mouth away from its perch at Mail's neck and simultaneously shoved the barrel of his gun in between the redhead's legs; the side of the cylinder brushed against his crotch, eliciting a frightened gasp. "Deal with it, fucker," Mello hissed into the redhead's ear, smirking in satisfaction when the other hesitantly complied by letting go and screwing his eyes shut even tighter. "They don't teach your kind of obedience anymore; color me impressed," Mello complimented with a brief chuckle.

Mail said nothing, trying to hold still and keep his muscles relaxed.

"That's it, boy. Be good... or I'll shoot your dick off." The purr at the end of the blonde's threat was unnecessary. "Now, keeping your eyes closed, why don't you stand up and make a show of removing those pesky clothes." -Worded like a question, it was an obvious demand, punctuated by the slight but very noticeable shift of the gun between the redhead's legs. "Get up and dance for me. Remember- eyes closed. No peeking."

Mail swallowed hard. He thought hard for an immeasurably short amount of time before realizing that he was completely at the disposal of this stranger. He sighed softly, the compression of air barely audible over the sound of the nearby washing machine. When he felt the other man's body draw away (the gun leaving as well), he cautiously got up and took a few blind steps forward, assuming his back was to the stranger. He bent over -ass facing Mello- and untied his shoes. Erecting his posture, he kicked them off, and pinched at the fabric of his shirt, intending to just pull it off, but-

Footsteps. By now, the sound of the washing machine had become so familiar that he hardly registered it at all, and all he could focus on was the sudden sound of boots thudding against the hard flooring. Heavy boots. Mello's boots. Mello's heavy boots. Boots that thumped at leisure, circling the redhead. "Slow down, Mail. I wanna get a good look at you. Dance for me. Make it sexy."

Mail sighed despondently but did his best to comply, but with his eyes shut, he was blind and clumsy. He started rocking his hips to a made up rhythm in his head. In a matter of seconds, he had his hands at his hips and was kicking his legs while humming a distorted version of the Cancan.

Mello bit his lip but failed to completely stifle his mirth. "What the fuck is that?!" he burst out, unable to contain himself, when the redhead nearly lost balance.

Mail regained his balance and ceased his 'dancing,' head lowered and eyes squeezed shut. "I-I only ever learned three types of dance. The cancan, the waltz, and the Tango. -And I only know the cancan because I was in the Foreign Language Club, and we went to France for a whole summer, and-"

"Okay, okay. Don't dance. Just strip."

Mail stilled for a moment before pulling his shirt off and draping it over his forearm. After a few more seconds, he dropped the shirt and reached for his belt, but before he could even undo the buckle, he heard a chuckle that effectively halted his progress. "Hn?" He asked noncommittally.

Mello rolled his eyes and smiled wide. "I'm just fuckin' with you. I'm not some fucked up rapist or whatever. -Open your eyes, shut your mouth, and listen up."

And Mail complied, his eyes taking in the sight of blonde hair and blue eyes attached to a leather-clad body.

And Mello continued to speak, his tone suggesting mild enthusiasm. "You and me, we're leaving in a few minutes. Forget your clothes. There's a basket in the back corner, in which you'll find a shirt and jacket. Next to the basket is a pair of boots. Put everything on and we'll head out."

"But, wha-"

"I told you to keep your mouth shut. Don't forget, I've got a gun, and I can still blow your dick off."

"But-!"

"I'm kidding."

"Oh..."

"Not really. The gun's loaded, fucker. Get dressed, and let's go."

Unsure of what else to do, Mail gave a curt mock-salute and did as he'd been told; he wandered over to the back corner, located the aforementioned articles and put them on. A simple white shirt. A black jacket with an intricate logo that read IND. Lastly was a simple pair of combat boots.

Once these were on his person, he turned to to face the blonde, stretching out his arms and posing as if to say 'Ta-Dah!'

Mello paid no heed to the redhead's musing, simply turning away and heading for the door, stopping only once his hand was on the knob and saying: "Welcome to the Industry, kid."

...

* * *

**/So... this was fun, ne?/**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **First off, I wanna thank my readers and reviewers. Second, I must warn you: Notoriously short chapter up ahead. Mostly dialogue, but it serves its purpose. Try to keep up because this might get confusing. It will be properly explained soon enough, no worries.

…

* * *

"Welcome to the Industry, kid."

Mail followed close behind, his head swarming with questions and his mouth bubbling with twice as many.

_"What's going on?"_  
_"What the fuck's the 'Industry'?"_  
_"Where are we going?"_  
_"You got a motorcycle?! That explains the leather..."_  
_"Where'd you say we were going?"_  
_"If I don't make it home soon, is this considered kidnapping?"_

The questions kept coming, but none were answered. Regardless, the redhead followed blindly with little beckoning.

Their journey was short but landed them two towns over at another laundromat. "What's going on here?" Mail inquired.

Mello said nothing but handed the redhead a pair of gloves before entering the laundromat.

Mail followed close, quickly noting that it was very much deserted. During the trek inside, the gloves were pulled on.

"Mello, what exactly is going on?" Mail couldn't help but ask.

The blonde rolled his eyes in exasperation before finally explaining: "The System's got you- or, at least, it _did_. If you're not part of the Industry, you're part of the System. Believe me, that's not anything you wanna be associated with."

Mail found the explanation a bit too vague and expressed this with a quirked brow and a slight scowl.

Thankfully, Mello complied to the silent urge to articulate. "The System dictates your worth and your needs. -You live in a toxic-waste part of town. You work a dead end job to provide services to people who don't give a shit. And you do this for money to buy things you don't really need."

"I only buy necessities!" Mail defended, gloved hands balling into fists as his usually complacent attitude began to flair into a slight temper.

"Cigarettes and videogames..." Mello mocked condescendingly. "Heh, sounds like a good title for a Green Day song."

"I like Green Day," Matt muttered, averting his gaze and working to quell his frustration. "Whatever, just tell me what's going on."

"The System has you pegged as a low-class loser who's going nowhere in life. The Industry works to prove otherwise."

Mail groaned. "You're still not making sense."

Mello made no effort to truly appease the redhead, but he did continue to speak. "The clothes you have now are your uniform. You may go about living your life as you see fit, but you will have your jacket, two plain shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of black socks, one pair of combat boots, and $300 for personal burial money."

"Wha?" Mail squeaked indignantly, frustration gone and replaced by concern. "I'm completely lost. Why would I need burial money?"

"Mail," Mello chided, slipping an arm around the redhead in a far too casual manner. "I know you. You have no family, no friends, and the System has you chained down and loafing from day to day. Nobody cares about you. Nobody needs you. You've been on your own so long, you forget what it's like reach out. The Industry has found you, and now that it has you, your life will never be the same."

Mail gritted his teeth before taking a deep breath and expelling it languidly. "You damn near assaulted me and took me here just to give me this bullshit speech?"

"No," Mello said quickly, stepping away from the redhead and smirking. "I kept you busy because, at this very minute, your precious home is being robbed."

"_!_"

...

* * *

**/Next chapter will be up by Friday. *celebrates* -Questions? If you ask, I might be kind enough to answer. XD/**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **Well, I hope you guys are keeping up because it gets complicated next chapter. Yes, some questions get answered, but more are brought to the surface, and we'll find ourselves wondering just how far Mail is going to get involved in this 'Industry.'

…

* * *

"I kept you busy because, at this very minute, your precious home is being robbed."

"_!_" Mail was speechless, Mello's words running through his head with all the power of a sonic boom caused by hot gas expansion. He couldn't help wondering what was and wasn't true. His thoughts jumbled, and he stammered uselessly as he tried and failed to collect his thoughts.

"Yes, robbed. Burglarized. Stripped down. Every personal article. Every bit of sustenance. Furniture, photographs, decor. Even the floor tiles and carpeting. When you return, your home will will be little more than a shell."

"Why the fuck-?!" Mail was usually mild-mannered and laid back, content with his position in the big scary world, but his emotions had built up and overflowed a figurative dam and he exploded. His face reddened, his veins popped, an without a second thought his fist flew in the blonde's direction.

Everything happened so fast, too fast to stop. But at the same time, it was slow enough to feel the air bending with his motions, breath catching in his lungs, and his gloved fist colliding with Mello's face cell by cell by cell.

Mello's head whipped to the side in response, but his feet remained firmly planted.

Mail heaved haughtily, eyes wide in disbelief as he stood there, arm still outstretched in a statuesque sort of tattle. "I-I'm sorry," he said, regret filling him like liquid latex in a mold. He'd never thrown a punch before in his entire life, and the adrenaline was already starting to ebb away. (Mortal Kombat, Street Fighter, and Tekken, and Blaz Blue DO NOT COUNT.)

Mello brought a hand to his reddening cheek and looked at the redhead before giving a slow and sinister smile. "You hit me," he stated, voice low but creepy smile in check. "I knew you had it in you. You're a fighter. Looks like I just have to push you around a bit to make you stop acting like a pussy." He chuckled darkly before swinging a well-practiced fist in Mail's direction to retaliate.

On instinct, Mail dodged, just barely escaping the hit. He lurched forward, launching a scrappy and amateur attack of his own.

From there it became an almost systematic trade of blows. A punch for a punch for a punch. A game made of violence. Bruises offered and received like prizes.

But after several minutes of this ragtag duel of knuckles ad furry, the redhead began to wear down significantly, and his impending left hook was much less coordinated than his previous throes.

And of course Mello grew bored, and his reflexes were easily quick enough to intercept; he was prepared and caught the redhead by the wrist, holding tightly and beginning to twist the entirety of Mail's arm and applying more than enough pressure to cause pain.

"F-Fuck, Mello, you're going to break my arm!" Mail cried, holding perfectly still in hopes of lessening the pain that seared though him.

"You struck me first, dumbass. Prepare to deal with the consequences." The venomous smirk could he heard in Mello's voice.

And Mail could only stammer in retaliation. "B-But! You provoked me!"

"And you're the bitch who took the bait," the blond grunted in discontent. "Look, I'm not going to break your fucking arm. I just want you to know that I _can_." With that, Mello released the redhead and took a step back. "All you need to know is: Don't fuck with me. Do what you're told. And don't be a pussy. That's it. It's just that simple."

Mail sighed, rolled his shoulder and rubbed his arm, trying to nurse the slight ache that remained. "Fine, whatever," he ground out, biting the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the growing bout of frustration within.

"As a member of the Industry, I was given a task. That task, well, I basically had to get a new member -but that member had to have certain qualifications. -Obviously, I settled for choosing you. You will receive assignments either from me or an anonymous superior that outranks myself, and if you don't do the tasks you're given, you're likely to be found dead, defiled, and with a stick of dynamite halfway up your ass."

Mail said nothing, simply listening and twitching his fingers out of reflexive habit.

"Members of the Industry meet up Sunday evenings in the basement of the White Chapel."

"_A church?!_" Mail gasped.

"A _cult_," Mello quickly amended. "Now, I've got shit to do, so I'll be taking you home. But I expect to see you this Sunday. Wear your uniform."

...

There was no further conversation, and it was fairly uneventful for Mello to take Mail home and drop him off. Upon entering all on his lonesome, Mail found the blonde's words to be true; his home had been stripped out. Even the blinds and drapes for the windows were gone. His stove, his fridge, his couch, his bed- nothing remained. Even the bulbs from the light fixtures were removed. He was essentially left in a giant empty box. And he couldn't help the mournful glance directed at where his tv and consoles and games were just a few hours prior.

He contemplated calling the cops, but a voice in the back of his head advised otherwise and a rational thought reminded him that his phone was gone anyways.

He felt despondent and disconnected. He missed his laptop. He was hungry. He was tired; it had been such a long day full of unconventional and unexpected events. He just couldn't really bring himself to do anything more than rest. He slumped against a bare wall and allowed his body to slide down until he was in a pathetic position on the floor. Comforted to be alone in his dark but familiar living space, he let his eyes slip closed and he allowed the remainder of the day wash away like a bad dream.

Alone, dark, silent, and content.

This was paradise.

...

Mail awoke the following morning to the sound of footsteps. He peeled back his eyelids to catch the sight of several booted feet moving about his empty living space. "What the hell?" He grumbled, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He hadn't a clock, but his body's protest to movement led him to believe it was too damn early to be up.

He was just beginning to gather his thoughts and recall events of the previous day when a familiar blonde came into view and thrust a card into his face. "Congratulations. Your new name is Matt. And I got you a new job too."

"Hn?"

"Thank me later."

Mail groaned again and thunked his head hard against the nearby wall. "What are all these people doing in my home?" He whined. "And my name is _not_ Matt! And..." He buried his head in his hands and struggled for composure. He was still tired, his thoughts muddled and vision blurred.

Mello said nothing at first, simply dropping the card next to the redhead. After a moment of silence, he spoke. "Your name is Matt. You work for the Industry. I will see you tomorrow at the White Chapel. -Meanwhile, these guys," he gestured to six-seven-_eight_ other faceless individuals that walked about, all wearing the same uniform. "These guys are going to keep an eye on you."

"I don't need a fucking babysitter, Mello."

"Yes, Matt, you do."

"My name's _not_ Matt."

"It is now."

"Is not."

"Then why is that the name on the only source of identification you have?" With that, Mello gestured to the card he'd dropped moments ago.

The card was a freshly printed and neatly laminated ID.

"Behave yourself, Matt. This can be really good for you, if you let it."

Mail said nothing, too occupied with taking the ID in his hands and looking it over. Aside from the name change, it was nearly identical to his real one. He bowed his head, his brain trying to process everything as it happened too quickly.

...

Hours seemed to pass, but without a clock, time was both discreet and overbearing at the same time. A threatening ghostly bomb ticking in the recesses of his mind.

Of course the blonde had gone, left to do whatever it was that he did; the redhead remained rooted to the spot, head buzzing and struggling to make sense of things as he watched several strangers walk about his empty home as if on patrol.

"Can I go out and get something to eat?" He asked almost rhetorically, not sure what kind of answer to expect, if any.

To his surprise, someone stopped to stare at him for a long moment before saying: "Yes, but you need an escort."

"Why do I need a fucking escort to get some cigarettes from the gas station and some poorly processed food from Taco Bell?"

"As a new employee of the Industry, there are rules to be followed and conditions to be monitored and taken into account. -The first rule of the Industry is: _There Is No Industry_."

...

* * *

**/There you go. More coming soon./**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **I had a few minutes of free time and got around to posting another chapter. Read on.

…

* * *

"The first rule of the Industry is: _There Is No Industry_."

...

Mail (refusing to accept the pseudo-name he'd been given) left home wearing his 'uniform.' The jacket he wore sported the letters IND, and he hoped he didn't look too suspicious with two men tailing him.

He was going to just take his car, but a warning look from an 'escort' and the whisper of 'might be bugged or seeded with a bomb' quickly changed his mind for him. And so, he traveled on foot, very much like he did in FFXII the first time he accidentally sold all of his teleport stones. (That had him kicking himself pretty good back then. _Ah, good times._)

Thankfully, there was a local gas station that doubled as a small convenience store not far from his place of residence, and he decided to make due with what it had to offer. Entering the small building and hearing a customary bell ding to announce his arrival, he felt suddenly paranoid... as if all eyes were on him and everyone was trying to figure him out.

This worried him, but he put on a fake smile and nodded politely to the people he passed from aisle to aisle. He grabbed himself a small carrying basket and proceeded to load it with things he perceived to be necessary. An energy drink, Doritos, bread, deli meat, sugary chewing gum, cigarettes, lighter fluid, and... -then he headed to checkout. He dropped his load on the counter by the cashier and reached into this pocket, frowning when he realized that he hadn't his wallet... or his money... or anything.

"I-I feel really stupid," he said, tone apologetic. "It's a long story, and you'll never believe me, but-" drawing his empty hand from his pocket, he leaned over the counter and muttered to the cashier: "This is embarrassing, but I can't pay..."

The cashier was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a neatly trimmed ghoti. His nametag read 'Charles,' but the redhead had known him long enough to know that he was an illegal immigrant from the East named... something or another. (Mail wasn't a social butterfly; he had no need to remember the name of some cashier, even if he had seen the man four or five times a week since he was twelve.)

'Charles' looked at him with a crooked grin before speaking with a poorly constructed 'faux American' accent. "Ah, no charge for you, Matt. No charge. Just take and leave."

This... was odd. Mail's brows knitted together in confusion as he took in the man's odd speech pattern and readiness to just let him walk off without paying. It didn't seem right. Something was... wrong.

"No, I can't do that," Mail said earnestly. "I'll come back when I can pay, alright?"

"No, you just take, and you leave. Yes, Matt? That good? You leave now. Extra smokes for you!" With that, the cashier added another two-three-_four_ packs of the redhead's preferred brand of cigarettes.

"I-I can't... -Why?" Mail's jaw dropped as he gawked at the man's strange attitude... but then something caught his eye. Something that explained the situation but raised so many more question.

-Because there, sitting discreetly off to the side behind a small donation box, was a neatly laminated card with three troublesome letters in the top right corner.

_IND._

"Fuck, you're with the... -You're?!" Mail ran a hand through his hair before noting the strained smile of the cashier. "Sorry, man. It's been a rough couple days for me." He tried to revert to his soft-spoken polite attitude, but his mind was reeling.

'Charles' continued to give that same awkward expression. "You take stuff and leave, Matt."

"... My name's _not_ Matt. How do you even know to associate that name with me?"

Just then, it happened. That feeling. That horrible feeling one gets when they're being watched, Mail experienced it. It started with a chill running along his spine and resulting his prickled flesh bumps. Then his heart beat just a little faster. And, as he turned away from the counter, he couldn't help noticing that those three horridly familiar letters were everywhere.

In the corners of advertisements pegged on the walls and in windows. On nametags. Embroidered on clothes, pins, purses, etc.

The INDUSTRY was fucking everywhere, and the redhead suddenly felt like a very small insect in a too-small jar.

Just how many people were watching him? How long had be been under surveillance? What the fuck was going on?

Panic in him rose faster than the raging bile duct, but he didn't know if he was more frightened or angry as his legs moved on their own accord, stumbling in a manic fashion in a misguided attempt to tear him from the little store.

He exited as fast as he could, breath coming in small choppy gasps. He looked around, eyes wide and heart racing. There were only a few people out as far as he could see, but that held little comfort for him; those few people... they just seemed too normal. Too suspicious.

When he screeched in discomfort, they looked at him as if he were insane.

And maybe he was.

But his legs propelled him away from the little store he'd felt so desperate to visit.

-Why did he want to leave his cozy home again?

_Oh, yeah, _he recalled. _Home is swarming with strangers. Aside from that, it's empty. It's not home anymore._

But he forgot his hunger. He forgot his addiction to nicotine, trapped in a world of paranoia and the internal urge to relate others to deceit that was surely being forced upon his naivete.

Mail ran out of breath long before he was ready to stop running, and he found himself doubled over, wheezing, legs still trying to move; though he could only take small awkward steps.

His muscles burned and his lungs seared from exertion.

In the back of his mind, he was reminded of a Gold Membership he had at a really nice expensive gym -though he'd never gone more than twice, and he didn't intend to.

Such a waste.

Catching his breath, his brain clicked onto auto-pilot, systematically pointing out all the nice neat shit in his life.

Shit he wanted until he had until he wasted.

A byproduct of consumer mal-intent; yeah, that about described the redhead's life.

If one thinks too long without success of drawing to the surface what they needed to recollect, they could easily forget what they wanted to remember in the first place. This happens more often than one thinks.

Mail never had such a problem, but this redhead, blinking slowly and forcing his breath to come in more calm intervals, he looked around and found himself lost on some street corner or avenue or whatever.

And he's alone.

Nobody's looking out for him. Nobody's conspiring against him. Nobody's surrounding him.

There's so much silence that static fills his mind.

That static swells within him and he becomes numb.

Looking down at himself, his clothes, his boots, and his shadow, he wondered what is and isn't real.

Was he dreaming? Was he destined to walk in a shadowy fog of deception and anxiety?

Illusions, dreams, thoughts, memories, fears, paranoia... It's all too terribly convenient. Tools to elude one from productivity.

And who doesn't want productivity?

In a world of consumers and producers, who doesn't wanna make and sell and buy and waste and repeat?

Safety in repetition.

...

* * *

**/Another chapter and more to come./**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **I wanna thank my readers and reviewers for taking time to check this out.

…

* * *

The redhead woke up on the floor in his kitchen; his body curled up where his fridge once was. He had no memory of coming home or falling asleep. But he woke up feeling cold, hungry... and strangely more comfortable than he should have. Even as, in that odd position on the hard un-tiled floor, he saw a sideways view of the world: of live movement where there should be none. -Booted feet thudding from place to place, legs moving. Legs attached to bodies attached to heads attached to a single-minded agenda.

People were in his home, all wearing the same clothes and sporting that clever IND logo.

Sitting up and drawing his knees to his chest, the redhead wondered how long this would persist and if he'd ever live his version of normal again. His fingers itched for a controller or handheld console; his lungs suddenly wished to be blackened with tar in the most literal sense, and his insides quaked with unease.

Suddenly, there was a flash of black, blonde, and blue- then nothing. Just a voice and the feeling of a cloth blindfold being tied around his head.

"Missed you, Matt. Where'd you run off to?"

No answer.

"No harm, I suppose. Just don't run off again."

"Blindfold?" the redhead asked quietly, head still swarmed with the muted warmth of sleep-fog coupled with the storm of nuance to the situation presented.

"Yes, Matt. Blindfold," Mello said simply. "I'm restricting your sight for a while. If you so much as think about removing it, I'll shoot your dick off."

"Why?"

"Because it's humiliating and it gets my point across," Mello answered smoothly.

"No," Mail interjected. "Why are you restricting my sight?"

"So you can learn to appreciate it a bit more. -As a new employee, you have to earn your privileges. Trust me, it's worth it. The Industry takes good care of its workers."

Mail sighed, expelling air into the stale atmosphere. "I just want my life back," he murmured, only to be smacked upside the head.

"No. No you don't, dammit. Matt! _That_ was not life; that was _existence_.- Listen to me. You only know what you think you know, but you don't know what you really know. Y'know? I'll help you though. The Industry will take care of you._ I_ will take care of you. I'll be here for you. I'll tell you what you want, what you need, what you know, and every doubt or fear you've ever had will be erased. I promise, Matt. This is what you want." With that, Mello carefully petted 'Matt' on the head in the same too-hard way that children do when they're new to owning a pet. "This is your life now, Matt. I'll train you. And when you're ready, I'll release you and you can work for the greater good of the Industry."

Matt's mind reeled. Caught up in the confusing words, the harsh petting, and the mindfuck of previous events, he was teetering on the brink of rejection and acceptation. Before he could even make up his mind Mello's breath was hot against his ear and Mello's voice was crawling through him and nestling in his head like rats nestle in walls.

"Matt, you're hungry."

There was a rustling noise. Foil crinkling. Then, Mello's one hand was placed on the redhead's stomach and his other hand moved an unwrapped chocolate square to the redhead's mouth. "Open up, Matt," he instructed assertively. "You're hungry," he explained.

_Am I hungry? _Mail wondered. Then his stomach growled. _I must be, _he rationed. Before he even realized he'd done it, he complied to the blonde's command. He parted his lips, tongue flat and taste buds anxious, and was rewarded by a small piece of chocolate entering his mouth.

"It's good, isn't it, Matt?" Mello asked.

The redhead nodded thoughtlessly, mind focused solely on the taste of the treat melting in his mouth. He was so hungry, but the small morsel was not nearly enough to satisfy him.

The hand on Matt's stomach crept beneath the thin fabric of a shirt and proceeded to rub in a small circular pattern on the flesh just below his navel before creeping south and dipping effortlessly into the redhead's pants, groping and fondling without warrant or warning.

Matt jerked, eyelids fluttering beneath the blindfold and mouth opening to protest, but another piece of chocolate entered and stifled any complaint he might have had; the words suffocated by the rich chocolatey candy.

"It's good, isn't it, Matt?" Mello repeated, smiling when Matt nodded. "Feels good to give up, doesn't it? To relinquish yourself in a way you never could before..."

A bob of the head served as an ungraceful affirmation as the redhead ate the chocolate and felt his cock swell at the hands of the blonde, loins pulsing with heated desire.

Another piece of chocolate.

Another stroke to his manhood.

Another piece of chocolate.

A nice pattern was starting, and soon the redhead was bucking into the blonde's hand and then opening his mouth for more chocolate without prompt.

Mello smiled as he manipulated the blinded redhead.

"MY Matt. The Industry will take care of your every need."

Another particularly hard squeeze. Solid, fingers curling and nails biting just enough to cause alarm. Mello's uncouth ministrations to the redhead's erection caused Mail to gasp and choke, body shivering and mind going blank at the excess stimulation.

"MY Matt."

Another piece of chocolate was given as Mello pumped Matt at a harsher pace.

This continued until the redhead's leaking sex emptied like a child's squirt gun, expelling streams of a sticky white substance and sullying his pants.

Panting heavily, physically sated, the redhead was unsure whether or not he would receive another piece of chocolate.

He waited and waited, uncertainty clouding his mind.

Then, nothing.

...

Too much time seemed to pass, during which Mail neither said nor heard anything. He concentrated solely on the feel of his lashes brushing against the blindfold.

Eventually, he got to his feet and began to feel around blindly, sighing in relief when his hands found a wall and he could move a little more confidently. Hearing nothing but the sounds he made, he wondered where Mello had gone.

_Where was everyone else? _

Not long ago, Mello was there, dangerous and threatening but seeming to hold all the answers in an almost hydra-headed sort of jest. And at least eight others were there as well, all faceless zombies that moved constantly. So much movement that the shell of a home almost seemed alive; as if it had become a living, breathing organism. And now there was nothing. Just a blindfolded redhead wandering aimlessly in the carcass that was his personal dwelling.

-Then, a thought struck him. _What if it had all be some sort of lucid dream?_ After all, Mail was now alone. There was no one watching him, spying on him, telling him what to do or how to live. It was safer to be alone, always. And it had been that way for as long as he could remember.

With no one watching, and no one telling him otherwise, he decided it was safe to finally remove the blindfold. And that's just what he did. He brought his hands to the back of his head where the fabric was knotted, and he tugged the knot loose and removed the cloth. Once the blind was gone, he willed his eyes to adjust, but there was no use. It was dark outside, and there were no lights inside.

He deduced his location and moved to sit on the floor in the back room where a conventional heater used to be. He was cold and tired.

He couldn't feel his eyelashes scraping the blindfold, but he still couldn't see and so no comfort was brought to him. He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

Thoughts filled him. In the decaying silence, the words in his mind were loud and overbearing, almost spiteful. His thoughts made his head hurt, but he was sure there wasn't any aspirin in his emptied home. No pharmaceutical band-aids.

It was so dark.

No light, no sun, nothing.

He strained for something, anything. His senses flared at the absence of sight. He listened to the sounds of his own breathing, critters scurrying in the distance. Listening carefully, he heard a cricket or two, but not much else.

Mail wondered if he was truly alone in this dark place.

All alone.

All alone in this cold void of nothingness that was his life not too long ago.

He'd been so content, too. Just to go from day to day, doing the same things over and over. That was fine before... so why wasn't it okay now?

He was torn between being comforted and afraid.

Being alone meant that nobody could hurt him, but it also mean that nobody could help him.

He buried his face against his knees and took a deep shuddering breath.

Suddenly, he heard something that made his breath hitch. A voice.

_Mello's_ voice. "Don't worry, Matt. I'm still here."

And for reasons he couldn't quite grasp, the redhead breathed a sigh of relief.

...

* * *

**/More to come. Next chapter will clear up things about the 'Industry,' and we'll learn about both Mail and Mello's backgrounds. Also, I'm going to bring in another character. Any guesses who? I'll give you a hint: It's NOT Near. *celebrates*/**


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **Long chapter ahead. I didn't get to explain as much about the Industry as I'd have liked, though this chapter is plenty long enough as it is. I'd like to thank and credit Carottal for the lengthy and well thought out reviews.

…

* * *

"Don't worry, Matt. I'm still here."

And for reasons he couldn't quite grasp, the redhead breathed a sigh of relief.

...

Though the darkness was ever present, faceless figures materialized and lit several candles, placing one or two in each corner of the rooms; this allowed just enough light to move around without discomfort.

In the dim light, the redhead could see that the blonde was wearing a fresh uniform. "Sunday evening," Mello said, voice abrupt through the eerie silence. "Get dressed." And he pointed to a fresh duplicate of what the redhead was already wearing. "White Chapel awaits."

Mail sighed and proceeded to strip without modesty, starting with the boots and jacket, then the socks. Then shirt. Then pants. Then, standing in his boxers still coated with dry crusted semen, he was suddenly concerned with hygiene.

"Remove them," Mello instructed, referring to the redhead's last remaining garment.

Gritting his teeth at the idea, Mail stripped off his boxers and opted for going 'commando' as the fresh uniform came on. Another unnamed worker of the Industry swiftly and silently collected Mail's clothes for an impending wash.

"You have only two uniform sets," Mello said matter-of-factly. "You need no more than two. Wear one, wash the other, repeat."

Mail sighed and patted his hands over his clothes, attempting to smooth over any wrinkles in the fabrics. "I need a shower," he muttered.

"You will not die from filth. Native tribes all over the world go days, weeks, and longer without bathing."

"My mouth is dry; I'm thirsty," the redhead grumbled, lowering his head and inhaling deeply, hoping to calm down from the passive aggression that was starting to boil within.

But of course, the blonde's mouth was too quick for any Zen master to combat. "No, you're not thirsty. You're not hungry. You're not dying from filth, dammit. -It's utter bullshit to think that you need to drink a certain amount of water every day, or eat three times in 24 hours, or shower at least five times a week. That is all bullshit put in your head by the fucking System."

"But-"

"Stop arguing with me, Matt, and just accept everything. -You will not die for a lack of consumption. As long as you give your body what it needs, you can live very well with almost nothing. You can go days without eating or drinking and still be just fine. So, stop with the excessive consumption, you gluttonous wretch!" Mello concluded his tirade and punctuated it by laying a gloved slap to Mail's face.

Mail hadn't seen the hit coming, but the sound resonated in his ears for almost as long as he felt the sting. "I'm sorry, Mello," he breathed the words more than spoke them, eyes closed and humiliation tugging at his insides; he felt like a scolded child, though he wasn't entirely sure what he'd done wrong.

"Damn right, you're sorry, Matt. Remember, I'll take care of you. I'll keep you alive and focused. You only need to worry about doing what you're told. You have all these stupid ideas in your head- about how anyone can be presidents or rock stars or movie gods... but are you any of those things? Did you ever have a chance to grow up famous or rich or... happy?"

And Mail said nothing. His mouth opened, but he couldn't think of anything appropriate to say, any inept comment he could have slung became caught in his throat, seemingly smothered by an unknown pressure before being forced back down into his seizing lungs.

"Face it, Matt," Mello said casually. "The world fucked you over, played with your head. You're an adult now, and you're still living like a kid who believes in Santa. -But I've got news for you, Matt: Santa got old. Santa had a fucking heart attack. Mrs Clause is senile and in a retirement home. The elves? Those mythical little fuckers with the pointed hats and bells on their shoes- half are in rehab and the rest are writing greeting cards for Hallmark. And don't get me started on poor pathetic Rudolph..."

Again, Mail said nothing, mind reeling.

"I don't mean to ruin things for you. But think about it. -Remember in the 90's when there was all that propaganda bullshit about that little boy who ate pop rocks and drank soda... and died? That was a lie too. Sure, it was meant to serve as a warning to children, but it was still a lie. Do you know how many people combined those two things after that, purely for the sake of proving the myth wrong? _A lot_, that's how many. Now, imagine if that had been true. Do you realize that all those stupid kids and teens and young adults could be dead? Then what?" Mello paused to release a bitter chuckle before adding: "nothing, that's what. They System doesn't care. Not like the Industry does."

Mail wrapped his arms around himself, feeling very small and conscientious. He didn't like what he was hearing or feeling, but in the back of his mind, he knew that running from this -_from the Industry, from Mello-_ was pointless. He was outnumbered, and Mello's loaded threat still hung in the atmosphere like a tossed gauntlet.

"Ready to go?" Mello's voice cut through the dread that had been filling the redhead's mind. "To the White Chapel, but we're leaving just a bit early so that I can teach you something vital."

"...you're not going to take me to another laundromat again, are you?"

"Don't be silly, Matt. We're going somewhere familiar to you, and then we're going to make a pit stop at the hospital."

Mail's eyes widened in alarm at the mention of a hospital. "...H-Hospital?" He couldn't help the stutter, nor could he stop the fearful quake that overtook his form.

"Afraid of hospitals, Matt?"

Mail refused to answer, biting his lip and working to quell his trembles.

"Well, if you're not going to tell me now, there's no point in wasting time. Let's go." And just like that, the blonde began to head toward the exit with Mail in tow, stopping at the door and waiting for nearly a minute before speaking. "It's dark outside," he said.

Mail looked at him quizzically. "Yeah?"

"The blindfold, Matt."

"But-?!"

"I'm almost bored of threatening you, Matt. If I get too bored, I might just shoot you for the hell of it. And neither of us want that."

Reluctantly, Mail backtracked and retrieved the previously used blind, carrying it to Mello and holding it out to him awkwardly.

Quirking a brow, Mello took the item in question and placed the band over the redhead's eyes, tying it behind his head as he had done before. "Good boy," he mused. "Maybe I should have you fetch more often." He petted Mail on the head in that too-rough fashion before taking him by the hand and leading him out. Once outside, the chill of the night air bit at their exposed flesh though neither paid any mind.

As Mello led him, Mail used both of his hands to hold onto Mello's one, refusing to let go even when his palms grew sweaty and moist. His ears were working to make up for his lack of sight, and in his mind, he could almost imagine his surroundings: the dank parking lot; the dim and flickering streetlights, the sparsely passing traffic, and the overturned garbage cans on the curb.

A particular sound -and then a smell- met Mail's senses and he halted in his tracks, not going any further as he awaited an explanation. Not receiving one, he stated the facts he deduced: "This is my car."

"Come again?" Mello questioned tonelessly.

"That sound... I know that sound. The sound of a car door opening. And that smell... Stale smoke from the last time I'd been in there. I can't see, but I bet I can tell you everything in my car. Everything. From the little scented pine tree on the rear-view mirror that lost its scent to the empty soda pop cans and chip bags all over the place. This is my car, Mello."

"You're an observant little shit, aren't you?"

"...yes."

"Well, no matter, Matt. Get in the car."

Sighing for what felt like the tenth time, Mail nodded and let go of Mello's hand, placing his own on the car and feeling his way around, intending to go to the passenger's side... though Mello's voice stopped him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Mail blanched, bewildered. "I'm... getting in the car?"

"No, Matt. You like your car so much, get in the driver's side," Mello instructed, stepping back and watching the redhead.

Mail paled slightly, cautiously reaching for the blindfold but stopping when he heard a disapproving grunt from the blonde. "I-I can't drive if I can't see, Mello. Be reasonable."

But Mello only released a bark of laughter, taking it upon himself to grab hold of the redhead and help him into the driver's seat and buckle him up. "Matt, you're a good boy. Just do what you're told."

"_But_-!"

"Stop using that word. I don't like it. If I hear it again, I'll cut your tongue out and feed it to a stray dog... and I'll make you watch."

Mail swallowed hard, fearful at the conviction in the blonde's voice.

"Now, Matt, what is the worst case scenario of you driving with a blindfold on?"

Mail didn't even need to think it through; he quickly answered: "Death."

"Wrong!" Mello smacked Mail upside the head in a jest of correction. "Let me tell you a story. -Hang on a minute." With his words putting the conversation on hold, he slammed the car door shut before going to the other side of the vehicle and slipping inside, buckling up and pulling his own door shut. Then he continued. "Okay, there was this guy... He was a homosexual living in a very homophobic society. He grew to detest others for the way they treated him, and he learned to hate himself for his desires. He was miserable. And so, he decided to end it all. He got in his car and sped off into the night, ready to crash into anything or drive over any cliff. -He had an accident-_ though it was on purpose, so was it really an accident?_ -He... didn't die. He lived, but he was paralyzed."

Mail winced but said not a word, afraid to aggravate the blonde.

"But, there's something to be said about that guy. There's a moral."

"A moral?"

"Yes, Matt, a moral. The moral is: _death won't help you escape your problems._ You see, we all live with the inevitable pretense of dying, but even death will not alter our course; instead, it will alter the course of those around us."

"Mello, I- I don't understand."

"Of course you don't, Matt, but I'm here. I'll explain it to your fucked up little head. -That guy from the story, he was a homo, a fag, a gay, a fruit. Trying and failing to die, he became a vegetable... In the end,_ he's still in the produce section_!" And Mello laughed a hearty, genuine, amused laugh.

Mail just gawked at the insensitivity. "I don't think it's funny."

Mello sobered up instantly, glaring at the redhead. "Point is, there are things far worse than dying. Even so, death can be beneficial. -Now, Start the car, and we'll ease into things. I'll tell you when to brake and accelerate, and I'll handle the steering. Got it?"

Mail didn't respond vocally; instead, he simply did as he was told. His fingers instantly found the keys in the ignition and gave a turn. He readied his feet for instruction and twitched his fingers in his lap, trying to resist the natural urge to grab the steering wheel. "She-She turns on a dime, be careful," he warned.

Whether or not Mello heard, he gave no recognition, simply reaching over and placing one hand on the steering wheel and saying: "Gas, go. Not too fast now."

And Mail listened.

"Sharp turn coming, brace yourself. Brake. Gas... Redlight. Stop."

And this continued until they had finally reached their destination and Mello had Mail park the car.

Mail instantly reached to unbuckle, but stopped when he felt Mello's firm grip on his arm.

"Matt," Mello said, voice surprisingly soft. "I told you a story..."

"About the fruit and vegetable guy? Yeah..." Mail muttered.

"Well, return the favor. Tell me a story."

"About what, Mello? I'm afraid I don't know any stories."

Mello's grip tightened on the redhead's arm just a bit. "Tell me... about you."

"What about me?"

"Anything I can't find on paper or in public documentation."

Mail snorted but gave it a little thought before shrugging. "I'm just not very interesting. I don't have anything to say."

"Tell me about your home life. Your mom and dad. Your friends. Everything. Tell me why you thought you needed all your crummy possessions."

Mail frowned, not sure what to think and not really wanting to expose anything personal, nor wanting to scratch open old emotional wounds. "Are you gonna shoot me if I don't tell you?" He asked, half-joking.

"Maybe," came Mello's reply.

...

[Mail's History : Mail's POV]

_If you ask anyone I've ever spoken with on a personal level, they'll tell you what I told them. They'll tell you that I was an only child... but that's wrong. I lied._

_I had a brother, a twin. He and I, born of the same blood, sharing DNA and appearance, and the same home... but never the same air. -Funny story, he and I, under a rare condition, we shared the same umbilical cord, and I guess I got most of the nutrition; I was born healthy, but he came out riddled with health problems. Low lung capacity, enlarged heart, weak immune system: the works. _

_Mom and dad, they loved me and my brother the same- just ask anyone who ever went to our birthday parties. We got the same toys, had the same bedtime, and it was fine. Really, it was. It was okay. _

_I mean it._

_I really do._

_Don't call me a liar._

_My brother and I were treated as equals... until he got sicker._

_But he was always sick and getting sicker. _

_Diabetes, at this age? Pneumonia? The flu? Oh, no, not lymphoma!_

_I was healthy. I wasn't dying. But for every time I brought home a good report card from school and found my parents hovering over my brother's bed, I wished he'd die. Because they wouldn't hear about my straight-A's. They wouldn't hear about how my friend broke an arm, or about how the teacher yelled at me and confiscated my gameboy. They didn't hear about how a bully took my lunch money and bloodied my lip. _

_They had only eyes and ears for my brother, but I couldn't understand why._

_We looked the same. We played the same things. We ate the same foods. I even started to comb my hair just like he did. I started wearing his clothes, hoping emptily that they might confuse me with him and acknowledge me._

_But they didn't. I wasn't some hopeless bedridden freak._

_Harsh? No. If you had to live like I did, you wouldn't call it harsh to say such things about my brother._

_I couldn't remember the last time my mom hugged me or read me a bedtime story. I can't even remember what she smelled like or what color her lipstick was. And all I remember about my dad was the sound of his voice when I tried to tell them I was cold or lonely... and he just yelled: "Can't you see, your brother needs help. Dammit, you're so selfish! Why don't you go and get him some juice?"_

_...I waited until mom and dad went to work, but not before telling me to keep an eye on my brother. When they left, I got him some 'special' juice. I call it special because... I dissolved rat poison and night-time medicine in it. I figure, with the acidic content of the juice, he'd never notice. I figured he'd get sicker, and I'd feel a little better about myself because I had something to do with it. Or maybe I wanted him to die but didn't want to admit it._

_I just remember feeling too pleased with myself when I told him to sit up, and then I handed him the cup of juice. I fluffed his pillows and smiled brightly at him. And I watched him drink every last drop._

_Then, I left his room and shut the door behind me. And I went to set up the Nintendo so that I could play Paper Boy 2._

_I played and played for hours. I lost track of time. I figured, maybe my brother fell asleep. Maybe he'd go into a coma. Maybe if he was put in a hospital long enough, just maybe mom and dad would forget about him and remember me._

_But... mom and dad came home and told me to turn my game off. And I complied without question, too happy to be acknowledged even a little bit. I was in such a good mood that I even followed them to the room my brother stayed in 90% of the time; I called it 'the Sick Room.'_

_Entering, both of my parents were struck with horror, and I didn't know what I felt._

_My brother, he was half off the bed, doubled over, a puddle of bloody vomit sprayed and splattered from the bed to the floor. And... his skin was graying, cold. _

_Dead._

_At my hands. _

_I'm pretty sure one of my parents yelled: "Mail, you were supposed to be watching him," but I couldn't hear anything. I didn't want to hear anything. I just remember looking between my parents and holding my arms out for a hug that never came._

_My brother's corpse was grabbed and rushed to a hospital, and I was left home alone, rooted to the spot in the Sick Room._

_I don't know how long I stayed in place, but I eventually decided not to worry about it. I gathered all my things -careful not to grab my twin's things by mistake- and I made a phone call._

_I called the local authorities and reported: There's been an accident._

_I made it sound really urgent, leaving an address but no details to what sort of emergency occurred._

_Police, firefighters, social workers, neighbors- everyone piled along the curb, waiting to see what had transpired. (In a small town, sirens draw a surprisingly large crowd.)_

_When everyone was nearing the front door, ready for anything, I walked out, dragging as many of my possessions as I could fit into one bag, and I said: "I hurt someone, and I'm all alone. It was an accident. I can explain-"_

_But I didn't get to explain. Instead, the authorities hurried past me and into the house, looking for someone who might be hurt, looking for a disaster to fix. When they found none, I was given a verbal warning not to call in false reports._

_I was angry, but before leaving, one of the firefighters looked at me and said something that stuck with me. "You're lucky, kid. Sometimes it's better to be alone. Nobody can hurt you... except you. This is as safe as you're ever going to be."_

_And with that, everyone dispersed and left me alone._

_My parents came home hours later. Mom was in tears, and dad was angry. Nobody said a word to me. The next day, I got dressed for school, but before I could get on the bus, my dad stopped me and said he'd take me._

_And I was elated._

_I hurried to grab my bag, and I got in the car and waited._

_Both dad and mom got in. Dad was driving, and mom sat in the back. Mom told me to ride shotgun next to dad, so I did. I was excited. I told them all about school, about my dreams, about my games- everything I could think of. And they listened. Really listened._

_My heart swelled with pride when they smiled at me, like everything was going to be okay. And for a while, I believed it would._

_At least, until dad took a wrong turn and didn't heed my warning. And the car collided head-on with another vehicle._

_I'll spare the details, but neither of my parents survived that incident. I got sent to a foster home._

_I was devastated and refused to do much of anything. I stopped trying in school. When I was given a gift for a birthday or holiday, I hoarded it in my new room in the home of my foster family. I didn't let anyone in the room. I didn't let them look at my things, let alone touch them. "Mine." If it was mine, and it was in my possession, I felt absolute; I felt safe. Nobody would take it from me.  
_

_I didn't need friends anymore.  
_

_I had my games. I had my nice neat shit, some of which never made it out of their boxes._

_Foster Mom and Foster Dad tried to buy my love for a while, but they eventually quit and accepted that I would never be their son. Besides, if I opened up to them and started to like them... they'd eventually find out what I did, and they'd hate me for it. I couldn't have that._

_Pain is something easily diluted with apathy and busywork._

_I killed my brother. I survived a crash that I should have died in. And then I became a leech that based my worth on the things I owned._

_-To this day, not much has changed. I'd do anything for the right kind of attention._

[End Mail's History and POV]

_..._

Not wanting to tell Mello any of this, Mail simply said: "I was an only child. My parents died when I was young, and I grew up with a foster family. Did okay in school, but I wasn't a genius. As for my possessions, I guess I'm a hoarder."

Mello looked at him with a knowing smirk before petting him on the head. "Fair enough, but you're a terrible liar. I know more about you than you think."

"Well, what about you, Mello? What's your story?"

Mello drew his hand away and displayed a bit of hesitance before averting his gaze and saying: "Not much of a story on my end. My parents were in the Industry. When they died, I was inducted. This is my life. Short leash with many rewards. I am strong and educated, and I know the value of man."

"...so, the Industry is all you know?"

"It's all I need to know. I don't need to be another product of the System. I have a lot of opportunities, and I don't need a bunch of pointless shit to make me feel certain ways. I'm happy."

Hearing the blonde speak with such sincerity, Mail couldn't help removing the blindfold, needing to see Mello's face to gauge his honesty. What he saw when the blind was removed was pure, unabashed, unhidden, unadulterated emotion flooding those blue eyes, though it was hard to discern just what that emotion was.

And just as quick as that emotion surfaced, it became buried once more, replaced by a scowl. "I never said you could remove the damn blindfold," Mello miffed. "No matter, now is as good a time as any for you to take it off, but next time you'd be wise to wait for my permission."

"If you say so, Mells."

"Don't call me that."

"Whatever you say, Mell-_o._"

Mello squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at the redhead. "What's gotten into you? Your attitude changed. I don't like it."

"I guess I just realized that you're human. I mean, I know you're not immortal or anything, but before, you just seemed like this pillar of dominance, and now you're... human. I like that."

"Well, Matt, I don't care what you like."

"I think you do."

"Matt, you're treading dangerous waters here."

To that, Mail only smiled warmly and tilted his head endearingly.

"Matt, my gun is still loaded."

Mail's expression refused to waver.

"...Fucker, we're wasting time. Get out of the damn car." Mello angrily kicked his feet and thumped his knee against the dash, cursing loudly at the discomfort before clumsily opening the door and attempting to fling himself out and into the cold night air, only to be stopped by the hold of his obnoxious seat belt. He twitched in irritation before fumbling to unbuckle; then he eventually managed to get out. "Hurry your ass up, Matt."

Mail followed at leisure. Unbuckling and taking his time to open the door and get out. "You like me, Mello. Don't you?"

"No, I'm just getting you on board with the Industry. Then, you and I are done. Over. Kaput."

"I don't believe you."

Mello drew his gun, but Mail was unfazed. However, instead of making a threat, he theatrically spun the pistol before reaching out toward the redhead. "Take it."

Mail gawked. "I... don't... know... Wha?" Confusion was written all over his face as he looked between Mello and the gun, unsure of what to do.

"Just take it," Mello growled.

And Mail complied, holding it at arms' length to add the illusion of safety.

After that, Mello produced a small wallet-sized photo of a little bright-eyed child and showed it to Mail. "See this?" he asked. "This little girl desperately needs a kidney."

"And?" Mail pressed, shuffling his feet uncomfortably, gun numbly resting in his hand.

"And, you and I are going to get it for her. We'll be heroes, Matt. Just like in those games you pointlessly liked so much."

"_How_?" Mail was puzzled.

"I've already gone through the trouble of finding a viable donor. Now you're going to help me get it. After we do that and drop it off, you and I will head on down to the White Chapel. At White Chapel is where it will all begin. Just in time too, because you start your new job tomorrow. For this purpose alone, I will allow you the luxury of a shower and proper meal... but only if you behave like the compliant young man you are."

Fear rustled in the pit of Mail's stomach, but before he could form the words to voice this, a harvest-gold station wagon pulled up, and out stepped an elderly man in a trench coat, his face hidden and only the reflection of light off his glasses giving way to any real detail.

Mello turned to look at the approaching man with a manic grin stretching between his cheeks. "Watari!" he greeted rather excitedly, though the excitement faded in an instant, replaced by apathy in its most generic form. "You're late." With that, Mello crossed his arms like a petulant child, only to receive a backhand to the face by the ominous figure.

Mail winced, unable to stifle the swell of sorrow within at what he'd just witnessed.

Mello quickly regained composure but avoided direct eye contact with the man in the trench coat. "The redhead is Matt. We're getting and delivering the kidney tonight before heading to the White Chapel."

The man -Watari- simply nodded and proceeded to unbutton his trench coat, revealing a pristine suit beneath; he was a slim elderly man whose face seemed almost permanently set into a frown. He looked at Mail with squinted eyes as his ring-rimmed glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. "Matt's fetching the kidney willingly?"

Mello nodded. "Yeah, he is. He's very compliant. He'll be a good employee for the Industry."

Watari handed his coat off to Mello and wiped imaginary filth from his lapel. "I'll watch and be the judge of that. Now please refrain from wasting any more time than you already have."

Mello doubled the coat up and tucked it under an arm, using his free hand to grab Mail's and muttering "c'mon, now. Don't fuck this up. We're just getting a kidney. Remember, it could save a little girl's life."

Mail was suddenly reminded of the weight of the heavy metal in his grasp, and it took a significant amount of will power not to spew stress-induced vomit.

Mello walked ahead with a confident stride, though as Mail stumbled along behind him, he could almost feel the tension radiating from the blonde. -Mail had just took notice of their location and where they were heading when Watari's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"Mello," the elder man said tersely, "you've gotten too comfortable. Give up your boots."

Mello froze, his whole body tense. "Sir," he said quietly. "With all due respect, if something goes wrong, I run much better with my boots on."

Watari let out a heavy breath to signal disapproval.

Sighing, Mello released Mail's hand and shoved the coat in his general direction, correctly assuming that he would take it without prompt. Then he knelt down and set to work at untying and removing his boots.

"Mello, what are you doing?" Mail asked quietly.

Mello simply took a deep breath and answered with a bored tone: "Apparel of any kind is a convenience of man and an illusion of propriety. It is not a necessity. The removal of boots does not change who I am nor what I stand for; it will not cause any harm to my person. Losing one luxury is the least I can do for the Industry that has already provided so much for me." -He spoke almost robotically; there was no thought to his words as he spoke them - as if he had repeated phrases like such any number of times. And after removing his boots, he set them aside and erected his posture, clenching his jaw and ignoring the stabbing pain of cracked and jagged gravel and asphalt digging into his socked feet.

Unsure of what to say or make of the situation, Mail looked around for some sort of guidance, only to once again be reminded of his whereabouts. And finally, he voiced his concern. "Mello, we're getting a kidney... And we're currently at the local gas station... Please, tell me-"

"Matt, remember your friend Charles?"

Mail's eyes widened considerably. "No. No, Mello... Please, no."

"Get ready to put that gun to use."

...

* * *

**/LONG CHAPTER, ne?/**


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **Ready, Set, GO!

…

* * *

"Get ready to put that gun to use."

...

Stepping into the small gas station with a gun in one hand and an old man's coat in the other, feet trailing after Mello, Mail felt very much like he was entering an episode of Twilight Zone. He could almost hear the cliche 'scare' music in the background. His footsteps became lighter and more cautious with the rise of his anxiety and the splicing of his nerves.

"It's going to be alright, Matt. I'll even give you a choice in the matter -Do you want to shoot him... or cut out his kidneys? You can do one or the other, but neither none nor both."

Mail felt a shiver run up his spine as he murmured, "I don't want to hurt anybody."

Mello stopped and turned to glare at the redhead. "If we don't do this, that little girl dies. There's no way she could get a kidney in time without us doing this. Do you want to be the reason for her to die? Do you want to be the reason she never goes back to school? Never graduates? Never goes to college to become a vet? Never goes on to get married and have a child of her own? -Would you take all that away... just because of your shitty morals?"

And all Mail could think to say is: "This is murder, Mello."

Still glaring, Mello roughly grabbed the trench coat from Mail and draped it over a display column. Then, taking a deep breath, he spoke again. "Don't think of it as murder. Shooting him -_killing him_- will nullify any pain that would come from cutting out his kidneys. Think of it as little more than a very nice and effective dose of fucking aspirin. -And don't bother telling me that it's wrong to cut out his kidneys, because it's not. If he's already dead when we do it, it would be a waste not to. Paramedics do this all the time. If someone is injured, and if they are an organ donor, more often than not, the paramedics don't try too hard to save them because the organs could be used elsewhere."

"Mello, I don't like the way you think. I want to go home."

Mello growled deeply and grabbed Mail by the throat, holding tight enough to cause discomfort but not enough to restrict airflow. "I'm not a criminal, Matt, if that's what you're getting at. This is my job. This is what I do. -You're right to say that it is wrong to kill someone and take their kidneys, but that's not what's going on. There are two people here -_you and me_- and one of us is going to take away pain, and the other is going to prevent a good kidney from going to waste. Understand?

"...No, Mello, I don't understand. I think it's wrong either way." Mail frowned but made no move to retaliate or back away, not even when the blonde's grip tightened just a bit around his throat.

"Matt, help me... just this one time, and I promise you won't have to hurt anyone again. Okay?" With those words, Mello pulled Mail close to him and planted a too-soft kiss to those unsuspecting lips, pulling away too quickly and relinquishing his hold on the redhead. "Charles -_not his real name_- should be in the back room."

Sure enough, upon walking behind the counter and into the 'Authorized Personnel Only' area, the strange Eastern immigrant was indeed present and stocking bags of ice into a freezer bin.

Mello gave Mail a look that clearly said 'get going.'

Mail swallowed the lump in his throat and shakily raised the gun.

Noticing the amateur hesitation, Mello rolled his eyes and stalked ahead, catching the foreigner by surprise and wrestling him into a full nelson and securing his hold. "Now, Matt. Do it."

'Charles' didn't put up much of a fight, and he didn't say a word. He simply resigned his fate, almost as if he'd expected such a thing to occur.

Mail could barely hold the gun with his shaky hands and sweaty palms. "What if I miss? What if I shoot you instead?"

"Matt, you're only about ten feet away. If you miss, it's pretty damn pathetic. You've played a lot of games, surely that has given you _some_ desensitization, right? Get it over with."

Mail took a deep breath, hoping to calm his nerves. Then he took aim, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. He felt the recoil of the blast and the tension immediately started to ebb away. He expected to feel sick or sad or... something, but he just felt relieved that the event was over. He opened his eyes and took in the scene, hoping for some form of praise from the blonde... but he was celebrating far too soon. Taking in the scene, he didn't see Charles dead on the floor and Mello kneeling with a buckskin knife, intending to slice him open and remove an organ. Rather, Charles was completely uninjured and a crimson essence was oozing from the blonde's shoulder.

"M-Mother... fucker," Mello breathed, eyes wide and dilated as he released his hold on Charles and brought a trembling hand to inspect his new wound.

"Mello, I'm so sorry!" Mail whined childishly, filled with horror and regret, unsure of what to do. He stumbled closer, waving the gun around carelessly as he declared "Don't worry, I can help. I'll get you a bandaid... or some disinfectant. Or-"

Mello tightened his jaw and grit his teeth as he dipped a finger into the bloody crevice in his shoulder. "Matt, put the damn gun down. Now," he said, voice surprisingly calm. "Better yet, give it to me." He reached out with his blood-stained hand and accepted the pistol when the redhead mumbled an additional apology and handed it over. Then, pressing the gun to Charles' head, he grinned menacingly and said "Goodbye... _Arvio_ - that's your real name, isn't it?" He chuckled humorlessly.

The man in question smiled, but his eyes gave away his fear. "Yes? I like Brittany Spears. I sing her music in shower."

"No, Arvio," Mello said. "Not anymore. But you knew this was coming. You signed on for this a long time ago. And the Industry thanks you for your services." With that, he pulled the trigger and the bullet exploded from the chamber, passing through the crown of the man's skull and out his bottom jaw, blood spraying and splattering.

Mail watched with wide eyes, fingers twitching nervously.

Reaching into his pocket, Mello retrieved a sheathed scalpel. He removed the protective scabbard and motioned for the redhead to come closer. "You can get his kidneys. Now. The quicker you do this, the quicker we can get the fuck out of here." Mello dropped the gun to the floor and pressed the heel of his hand to his wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. "Seriously, Matt. I'm light-headed. Hurry the fuck up."

Taking the scalpel, Mail straddled the corpse, trying desperately not to think about what he was about to do. He carefully set to work unbuttoning the man's jacket and then tugging at his shirt.

Mello sighed heavily. "What? Are you trying to make love to the dead fucker? Just cut through his shirt and slice him open like a fetal pig!"

Flinching at the words and tone used, Mail did as told, cutting open the fabric and making the three necessary primary incisions for gaining access to the infrastructure of the body. His hands, arms, and clothes were quickly becoming saturated in the warm red essence, but he willed himself not to focus on it. Instead, he thought about all his biology and anatomy lessons. He thought about the dissections he did in class. And he thought about all those medical shows he used to watch. Just when he thought he was going to get sick, he thought of the picture of that little girl who would need the kidney. Suddenly, it didn't seem too bad anymore. He imagined her life as Mello had described it, growing up and living with her very own happily ever after.

Before he knew it, he was holding both kidneys in one hand and the scalpel in the other, awaiting further instruction.

Mello managed to ignore his own ache in favor of fetching a cooler and a few bags of ice. "We'll... preserve it with ice until we get it to the hospital," he said, voice much quieter than normal and movements too sluggish for comfort.

Mail couldn't help asking: "What about the blood and mess? What about the gun? What about-"

"Watari will have... other members clean it up. Let's go."

Mail carried the cooler and wrapped his other arm around the blonde to lessen the chance of him falling. "You look sick, Mells."

Mello didn't even have the energy to argue about the nickname he'd been addressed with. He simply focused on getting out.

Watari waited just outside the gas station, arms folded across his chest and eyes leering judgmentally. "Got the kidney?"

"Got the kidney," Mail answered without missing a beat. "There's a mess inside. Your coat is untarnished, I think."

With that, Watari nodded, materialized a phone, pressed it to his ear and headed inside.

Mail assumed they were clear for leaving and helped Mello walk to the car. "Should you lay down in the back, or do you want to ride up front?" he asked, trying to hide the concern in his voice.

Mello shrugged halfheartedly but gave no verbal answer.

With mild difficulty, both managed to get into the car, both sitting up front with the cooler between them.

The drive to the hospital was quick and uneventful, save for the occasional complaint on Mello's behalf as he questioned: "_How the hell can a gamer not have at least a little experience with a gun?_" -to which, Mail responded insistently with: _"Not my fault; I don't play shooters!_". But, at some point, Mail could almost swear he heard a soft, barely audible whisper of: "_You did good... for your first try._"

Mail pulled into a handicap parking space before getting out with the cooler and opening the door for Mello. The two entered through the front and bypassed registration without question. The cooler was wordlessly handed off to a man in a white quote who had IND tattooed on the side of his neck. Moments later, a nurse was at their side to aide the blonde's injury.

Again, this nurse depicted the three lettered logo.

No questions were asked, and no answers were given.

Mail tried not to appear too anxious, but this all seemed too convenient. Still, he kept quiet and waited for Mello's command, so sure the blonde wouldn't steer him wrong after what they'd been through together.

...

After being fixed up, Mello was ready to leave and head to White Chapel, and though Mail desperately wanted to meet the child who would receive the kidney, he complied without hesitation.

With Mello's words to guide him, he found himself once again in his car with a blindfold. Mello goaded: "Gas, brake, speed up a little- not too fast, Matt. Good boy."

Before long, the car was parked, the blind was removed, and the two were walking side by side, entering through a set of doors that led straight into a basement cellar of a large, posh, and luxurious church.

Entering, Mail's senses were assaulted one by one. First and foremost was the procession of smells. That vinegar and piss smell of chemicals meant for hiding other unmentionable odors. Ammonia. Copper. Stale musk. Breathing it all in, he could almost taste it. Then Mail's ears and eyes. Idle chatter that came from well over a hundred people, all wearing the same clothes and either remaining silent or speaking in short animated phrases that varied little from person to person; their words well practiced and their movements stealthy and purposeful. Last was his sense of touch; while he kept his own hands to himself, it almost seemed as if others were making a game out of bumping into him or patting him on the back. Nudges and touches and bumps and prods, he wanted no part of it; he stayed as close to Mello as possible, eyes wide and fingers twiddling.

"How long do we have to be here, Mells?" the worried redhead questioned.

Mello half-shrugged with his good shoulder. "Don't worry about it. We're just here to confirm your new job and pick up laundry. Anything else is really unnecessary at the moment."

"...Really?" Mail questioned in disbelief. "Then what? We can be out of here in about ten minutes and then - What happens next?"

"Matt, then I take you home and prepare you for your first day at your new job. After that, I suppose we part ways. You'll probably still have a few people keeping an eye on you, but as long as you follow a few basic rules, everything should be fine. Do as you're told. Don't be part of the wasteful bullshit and propaganda of the System. If anyone asks, the Industry does not exist. Unless specified, jobs for the good of the Industry are usually carried out on the weekends, and we meet up on Sundays at White Chapel."

Mail nodded, trying to take in everything Mello was saying, though his eyes caught sight of new arrivals and soon that was all he could focus on. Because those new arrivals were covered finger-to-elbow in blood, possibly coming from some sort of illegal job that they'd been assigned. -Realizing this, Mail was alarmed of his own appearance. He looked himself over and frowned at the new stains that covered his uniform.

Just then, another person entered; unlike the others, this one came alone rather than in pairs or a group. He pushed a mini moving dolly, on which were stacked baskets full of dry cleaned uniforms in nice neat labeled bags that had been compressed and sealed. Walking around, this man began reading off the labeled names and handing clothes out to each and every person.

And then another person, this one wearing khakis and a polo as he served drinks from a platter.

So many people, all seeming to know exactly what they were expected to do.

Mail found his mind full of white noise as time went on. He couldn't tell seconds from minutes, though he came to his senses when the crisp and familiar voice of an elderly man broke his static barrier, calling him by his appointed name.

"_Matt_," spoke Watari. "Good to see you here. Your progress is something to marvel. Now, I'm not normally the person to do this, but in the absence of our usual activity manager, I will be the one to assign you to a new job."

Mail braced himself for the worst, wondering if he'd have to kill or hurt anyone, if he'd be some sort of spy or terrorist, or even if he might get off easy... However, with all the thoughts and scenarios that crossed his mind, he never even considered...

"Matt, you will run a Suicide Hotline."

...

* * *

**/That was interesting, ne?/**


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **I'll try to update soon, but it might be after Christmas.

…

* * *

"Matt, you will run a Suicide Hotline."

...

After collecting their clothes and relaying a few handshakes and insincere words of closure, Mello excused himself and Mail from the gathering. "That went well," the blonde said simply, heading to the car and getting in.

Mail followed suit, tossing their clothes in carelessly before seating himself and reaching for the blindfold, only to be halted by Mello's hand on his arm.

"No, Matt. Your behavior tonight was good enough to impress Watari. You've earned your sight for now." With that, Mello smiled and patted the redhead on the back.

Mail wanted to feel ill, but all he could focus on was the swell of pride inside at Mello's praise. He shifted to get more comfortable in his seat before starting the car up and taking the wheel. Before pulling out, he closed his eyes for a moment and savored the small pleasant feeling that warmed him. Then, releasing a small breath, the warmth started to fade and he felt compelled to ask: "I start work tomorrow, right? What about my old job? And what does my new one entail?"

For once, Mello fell silent, not answering right away like he had any other time prior.

The drive was slow and quiet. Too quiet. Too slow. And yet, the redhead made an effort to stretch it out and make the trip even longer. Turning and taking a back road that he'd seldom driven before, he wondered if he'd get an answer or if he should just turn on the radio to null the uncomfortable silence.

But Mello didn't make him think on it too much longer; instead, he finally found his voice and spoke with an unreadable tone. "Matt, listen to me. This weekend has helped you open your eyes for perhaps the first time in. You've experienced so much, and yet you've only gotten a glance at life."

"Mello..."

"I already turned in your letter of resignation, and another member of the Industry will be filling in for your remaining days."

"Mells..."

"As for your new job, it's not going to be easy. You know that, right?"

"Mello, your voice doesn't sound okay. Is something bothering you? You can tell me. I-"

"Matt, listen to me. Just shut the fuck up and listen. Tomorrow, at exactly 1 AM, you're going to get your first call. It's going to be a woman calling. She's going to cry and tell you about her poor pitiful life, and then she's going to tell you how she plans to kill herself..."

Mail's breath caught between his lungs and throat, and his grip tightened on the wheel.

"And, you're probably thinking that you'll just throw some positive shit in her face, tell her that she'll be fine and she needs to move on and live her life to the fullest extent... but you won't. You can't tell her that. Instead, you're going to tell her exactly what she wants to hear."

By now, Mail reached home and parked the car. He remained quiet for a moment before responding to the blonde with another question. "What am I going to tell her? What is it that she wants to hear?"

And Mello answered. "You're going to bite your tongue if you think to tell her how good life can be. And instead, when she weeps and wallows, you're going to say: '_Kill yourself, do it_.'"

Mail's eyes slipped close and his heart clenched tightly in his chest; an unpleasant shiver ran along his spine and he bit his lip to prevent any argument that wanted to bubble forth.

"You're going to tell that bitchy woman to '_kill herself._' You might even encourage her to get creative with alcohol and barbiturates. Maybe slip a plastic bag over her head and teach herself to stop breathing. Asphyxiation can be fun. -Whatever you tell her, make sure she knows you're not going to help her."

"Mello... why?"

"Because, Matt, if she wants to die, it's not your choice. However, if she wants to live, she needs to figure that out on her own; you do not have the authority to tell her to live. -That's why Watari assigned this to you; he obviously believes you're capable of understanding this shit. -If a person wants to die, it will appease them that you give them permission and encouragement, but if they want to live, at least they'll find their own reason to do so. Anything positive you could possibly tell them won't truly mean anything to them. So, this is for the best."

"...I don't want to do that, Mello. I can't."

"You can, and you will. They do not want your hollow encouragements." Mello looked at Mail with eyes full of intensity and... something else. "Don't disappoint me, Matt."

Mail sighed, head aching and heart breaking as he imagined the pending obstacles ahead. Taking a deep breath, he focused solely on Mello and said something that surprised even himself. "Mello, stay with me tonight."

"Matt..."

"Mello, please. Be there with me in the morning... when that first call comes. Don't make me be alone."

For the longest time, nothing more was said, and the building tension drove a wedge between them.

Minutes ticked away.

Time itself became an aging factor.

Then, opening the car door, the blonde got out and grumbled "Get our clothes and come on. I'll stay til morning. But you owe me."

-Getting inside, Mail was surprised to find his home once again alive with movement. What's more, his home wasn't just full of people -but _things_ as well. And those people, all in uniform, were arranging posh furniture and designer decor.

"What the hell?" the redhead muttered, confused. "Didn't you guys rob me of all my shit? Why are you-? What is...?!"

"Matt, I told you: the Industry takes care of its employees. You do a good job, you get a reward. You fuck up, and it gets taken away," speaking, Mello's tone lowered in what some might call borderline contempt. His gaze flicked downward for just a moment before averting, not wanting to train his eyes on his bloody socked-but-not-booted feet. He curled his toes and found his gaze traveling down again, then behind him, vaguely curious if he'd left any red-stained foot prints on the freshly tiled floors. Sighing quietly, he murmured: "_The Industry giveth; the Industry taketh away._"

Mail didn't hear the downtrodden woe in the blonde's voice, eyes wide and focus steeled on taking in all the nice new things he could never afford on his own. Everything, from the freshly painted wall with a hand-painted border of intricate vines and imperfect flowers to the imported Chinese silk drapes. The fancy tribe-made glass ornamental sconces, each brimmed with lightly scented candles -oh, and that painting on the wall must've cost a fortune at some fat cat's auction or another... Not to mention the HUGE new flat screen that took up almost an entire wall on its own and sat across from a luxurious sectional sofa. Then the Scandinavian coffee table, the sleek laptop that rested on top of said table and sported the clever three-lettered logo he was beginning to admire...

And this was just the living room.

Curiosity and mild excitement drove him to investigate the kitchen. A high-set marble table and matching stools with leather padded cushions... Heavy silverware and fine china dish sets. Fluted wine glasses next to a series of small bottles, each containing a variant of alcohol- and of course a fancy decanter of sherry. Even the fridge, full of fruits and condiments, and foods that require more than a microwave for cooking.

Then, he just _had_ to see his room. At first, upon entering he was mildly disheartened because all he could really see was a new bed dressed in bedding that followed a bland color scheme. His dresser was still gone, and his closet was still empty- at least, it was until he carelessly tossed his and Mello's dry cleaned clothes inside.- But, upon further inspection, he found that his stained up floorboards had been replaced with shag carpeting.

All in all, he was excited and happy, even if his bedroom hadn't received the same makeover as the rest of his home seemed to. Throwing himself face-first onto the bed, he nuzzled his face into a particularly soft pillow.

Eyes closing, he hadn't realized just how exhausted he was. Sleep was calling his name and lulling him into the wonders of dreamland.

This was all very new for the redhead whom had grown accustomed to living on minimum wage, not really expecting anything grand from life in terms of material possessions... but he was certainly happy. Happy, content, and tired.

...

Mail awoke to movement; his equilibrium shouted that he was in an upright position and being moved; his body was slammed harshly into a wall over and over again

Mildly alarmed, heavy eyelids peeled back to allow Mail a view of his assailant, though he relaxed instantly. "Mello?" he breathed groggily, vision blurry, though he could easily make out a distinctive blonde bob of hair.

The blonde seemed to snarl, eyes narrow, nose crinkled, and lips pulled back with unbridled irritation. "Mother fucking idiot," he barked insultingly.

"Hn, Mells?" Mail tried, still in the process of emerging from the veil of sleep.

Mello held the redhead against the wall with more than enough force and pressure to cause discomfort, holding him there until he was certain Mail was alert enough to stand on his own feet; then, he reluctantly relinquished his hold, but his scowl stayed in place as he explained his animosity. "You, Matt, are a dumbass, y'know that? The Industry is tossing you a fucking bone to reward you for what you've done, and you're not only happy about it, but you're literally jumping into the bed they made for you."

Mail looked Mello in the eyes, clearly confused. "That's okay, isn't it? Isn't that what I'm supposed to do? I-I'm tired and confused... and hungry... and...-"

Mello slapped Mail hard across the face, effectively ending the list of complaints he was rattling off. "No, Matt. Bad. Now pay attention. You work for the Industry. It's the only path to escaping the System, so of course it's your only option, but... you can't sit back and be the Industry's bitch either."

"I'm still so confused."

"If you let the Industry buy your loyalty with possessions, what's going to happen when you eventually lose those possessions? Will your loyalty crumble? Will you find resentment? Fuck, Matt, think about this for a minute, okay? And... don't you think they rewarded you a bit excessively just for getting a kidney?"

Mail's brows knitted together in an appropriate show of bewilderment. "I-I don't know? I just... I thought-"

And suddenly, Mello's lips were on Mail's, soft but firm and commanding. He withdrew before Mail could properly register or react, sighing. "It's good that you work for the Industry, but... Matt, just as easily as they gave you these things, they can -and probably will- take it all away."

Mail nodded mutely, eyes shining with unprocessed emotions and abashment.

"I bet you got pretty tired the moment you laid in bed, didn't you, Matt?"

Mail nodded semi-absently, lips still tingling from Mello's warmth.

"That's because your nice new bedding has been doused in chloroform. Now, before you freak out about this, understand that it is not uncommon. The Industry will take care of you and even go as far as to reward you for doing your job, but you need to be wary of excess. It comes with a price. Now..." Mello paused, stepping away from the redhead and looking around. "Aside from a few bugs I took the liberty of removing, your home should be safe for the time being."

The two stood in silence for an immeasurable amount of time before Mail found his voice, and while he had many questions, comments, and concerns about the Industry, the one thing he found himself asking was: "Erm, Mello, why are you naked?"

* * *

**/More coming soon./**


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **Not much happens, but there's some good 'Oh, Matt' moments.

…

* * *

"Erm, Mello, why are you naked?"

The redhead couldn't help the question. Above all other queries that crossed his mind, this had been the first to make itself vocalized, and Mello's response was little more than a scoff and a half-hearted love tap to Mail's cheek.

Still weary, he barely felt the sting of his cheek as he repeated his question with fewer words. "Mello, nakedness, why?"

Stepping back from the redhead, stance wide, legs spread and glorious junk practically hissing 'hello' from its perch between a set of slender thighs; his arms arms bowed and hands clasped behind his head -his physique almost poetically on display as he answered: "because, dumbass, it's like I told you before. Two uniforms are all you'll ever need. The same can be said for myself. I also said that most assignments given by the Industry will be carried out on the weekends unless otherwise instructed. -Well, I did my job. The weekend is just about up."

"So...?"

"_So_? You don't work at a fast food joint, only to come home and continue to wear a dorky hat and cheap vest, do you? No, you don't- God, at least I hope not.- Same with the Industry. No work, no uniform. Plus, I needed a shower. I used your shower; I didn't think you'd mind. Then again, I don't give a shit if you mind or not."

Mail sighed and tore his gaze away from the blonde, nearly blushing at the fact that he'd caught himself staring listlessly. "Oh, okay. Can- Can I have a shower too?" He was suddenly reminded of the dried blood that flecked and branded him.

"Yeah, Matt, you can. But you have to stay nude afterwards."

"Wha?"

"Fuck, Matt, I'm only kidding. Lighten up a bit. Go shower, put on a fresh uniform afterwards. By the time you come out, I'll have a meal prepared for you. Sound good?"

"...yeah, actually it does, Mello. Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet."

...

Mail did as he was told. He went to the bathroom to take a shower. He couldn't decide whether or not to lock the door- it should have been an easy decision but for some reason, his insides pinched and an internal conflict flared, and all he could focus on is 'would Mello approve of a locked or unlocked door?'. The question bugged him, even as he left the door not only unlocked, but partially cracked open. Even as he stripped nude, gaze flickering toward that tiny crack between the door and the wall, as he both wondered and hoped for a certain blonde to steal a peek or call for him, maybe tell or teach him something that would make his life make more sense again.

He liked being told things.

He liked having a guide through the murky and frightening unknown.

He liked... Mello.

His next thought, as he stripped and stepped into the porcelain dam and turned the water on, it might have been more directly linked to the Industry that was slowly owning his soul -bartering it by the fraction, treating each piece like a novelty timeshare- but that thought was quickly aborted as the water hit his flesh and a shriek left his mouth.

The water... it stung, cold like ice sickles; needles of frost pelting his skin.

He fiddled with the taps- the knobs shiny: faux crystals. One had to be 'hot,' but try as he might, twisting one and then the other, neither produced any warming water. One was cold; the other colder. After several seconds that felt even longer, he gave up and just let his shivering frame try to adjust to the cold cold water. But his body, warm in comparison, did not adjust. His teeth chattered, his toes curled, and his hands rubbed vigorously, trying for heat that he couldn't produce.

In the end, he grabbed a wash cloth and soap-_ this bottle didn't feel like soap or shampoo_- but his eyes were closed; the temperature was so cold that it actually hurt to keep them open. And so, he kept them squinted shut as he shivered and fumbled with an anonymous bottle. He unscrewed the cap and doused the cloth.

The liquid was too fluent, not thick enough to be any soap or shower gel that he was familiar with.

And that _stench_. The smell of lemon? Pine? Something...

Something terribly too clean.

He didn't put any thought behind his actions as he set to work, scrubbing himself.

He didn't worry for his hair; he simply started with his face, his neck, his jawline. His shoulders, his chest, his arms. His legs and feet. His ass and his frontal region of fucking intimacy.

The smell was so strong, it burned his nose and throat, but he was so cold, and all he could think to do was scrub harder and faster so that there was a slight chance of friction-induced warmth.

Eventually, he lost track of time.

He leaned heavily against the coolly tiled wall, fingers numbly dropping the wash cloth to his feet. His eyes were half open, vision blurred. He blindly reached to turn off the water; then he stepped out, and fumbled for a towel.

Wrapping it around himself, he closed the lid on the toilet before seating himself, shivering pathetically.

He vaguely wondered what had gotten into him, why he wasn't thinking more rationally... but he couldn't come up with an answer, and he didn't want to dwell on the matter. So, he didn't. He waited 'til he had feeling in his legs, and then he got up, holding the towel tight to his flesh, and he walked out of the bathroom, glad he could just push the door open without bothering to turn the knob.

He walked to the kitchen, drawn by a comforting scent.

Walking in, he saw the table set up, lights dim, fancy flameless candles lit, a very nude Mello seated with his legs crossed elegantly, and a bowl of soup sitting next to a simple but tasteful sandwich.

And Mail smiled, all too happy to stumble over and take a seat across from the blonde. "For me? Th-Thank you, Mells," he said, genuinely happy.

But all Mello said was: "Matt, you reek of Pine-Sol."

Mail said nothing, trembling hands fighting to grasp the silver spoon and deliver the warm concoction of chicken, noodles, and broth to his awaiting mouth. With a little difficulty, he managed, and while the heat burned his esophagus (inflamed from excessively inhaling the cleaning agents), he was all too happy for warmth, and so he continued to eat, occasionally slurping the broth from his spoon.

Soup finished, Mail reached for his sandwich, too contented just to have his stomach filled- he'd almost forgotten his need for food. It felt so good for him to consume, devour, eat. His stomach protested, being filled, but he just had to eat. He didn't want to waste the wonderful food Mello had offered him so kindly.

But... one bite into that sandwich, and he wasn't savoring the wheat bread, deli meat and cheese. He was tasting blood. His eyes widened as a liquid slightly warmer than his soup filled his mouth.

Copper.

Liquid copper.

Blood.

Definitely blood.

Pulling the sandwich from his mouth and dropping it onto a plate, he brought a hand to his mouth and stuck out his tongue. Sure enough, his tongue was bleeding, a large nasty slice nearly cutting his own tongue in two, leaving it forked like a serpent. He looked to Mello for answers, unable to voice his question, but Mello only responded with a nod toward the sandwich. And, looking, Mail noticed a silver razor blade protruding from where he'd bitten.

"F-Fuh-uck!" Mail coughed the word improperly, trying to curse but stuttering over soreness and the taste of his own life's essence. "Why?" He pleaded softly, locking eyes with the blonde as red dripped down his chin; he swallowed some of it.

Mello only shrugged, blue eyes closing. "Matt, I'm helping you. Because, you wanted something nice, and you got it, but you need to realize that nice things come with repercussions. Besides, it's almost-"

"I fucking got that already!" Mail snapped. "Th-This was unnecessary!" Spitting those words, blood came with it. Mail stood up abruptly, appetite long gone and forgotten. He stomped away, unable to look at his blonde companion for another second, thoroughly disgusted at what had just happened. Facing away, he leaned his elbows on a counter, head bent and eyes shut as blood continued to dribble from his mouth.

"Matt, it's almost time for-"

But Mail didn't want to hear the blonde's words, warning or preaching or whatever. ("_The Industry blah blah, fucking blah. The System is infectious waste- or whatever."_) He didn't want to hear it. His mind was full of static noise. Some call it selective hearing; he didn't call it anything, too caught up in the small freedom it afforded. And though he could block out anything Mello might have said, he couldn't block out the sound of a nearby phone ringing.

That loud, obnoxious chirp that demanded attention.

Angry and hurt and with his mouth in pain, skin still irritated from his too-clean Pine-Sol bathing experience, he thoughtlessly felt around for a phone that just kept ringing nearby. His fingers wrapped around it, pulling it close to his ear, answering.

Then, he heard it...

Weeping.

_"I-I'm doing it this time. I can't take it anymore. He-He doesn't- My boyfriend doesn't love m-me. I bet he'd care if I died. He'd miss me! I'm going to p-pull the trigger. I'm really doing it! Don't try to stop me! I-I'm just calling... not to get help, but so somebody knows... what's happening to me tonight. I'm doing it, I swear!"_

Hearing this, that sick desperation in this strange woman's voice, Mail's heart hurt. His chest clenched and he tried to focus on what was going on. He tried so hard to get his bearings. He opened his eyes and found his face only inches away from a clock that arrogantly boasted _1:00 AM._

That woman's nag in his ear, the pain in his mouth, the bloody taste, and the discomfort from being nude and smelling that cleaner all too strongly, Mail didn't succeed in his endeavor to think before saying the first thing that came to mind. "Y'know what, do whatever the fuck you want. I just- I don't care. I'm sorry, okay? I've got... my own shit to deal with. I mean, I-"

And that's the end of the conversation as far as words go. Because Mail was interrupted with a click and a bang. Then, nothing.

Static.

White noise.

That dead-air sound that comes when one person is still on the phone, but the other person isn't anymore.

And Mail slowly -oh, so slowly- hung up the phone.

His insides stopped clenching; his mouth no longer festered with pain and crimson deceit. He wasn't so angry anymore.

He was numb; he registered this much.

The next thing he registered was a set of arms around him, Mello's chocolate-scented breath at his ear, saying: "Good job, Matt. Let's rest. In the morning, we'll check the obituaries. I think her name was Misa-Something." Mello's mouth remained against Mail's flesh, even when he finished speaking; he kissed a tender spot and pulled the redhead close, hands roaming freely and stopping only once they held a handful ass.

...

* * *

**/I'll update asap./**


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **Words... I've got none.

…

* * *

"Good job, Matt. Let's rest. In the morning, we'll check the obituaries. I think her name was Misa-Something." Mello's mouth remained against Mail's flesh, even when he finished speaking; he kissed a tender spot and pulled the redhead close, hands roaming freely and stopping only once they held a handful ass.

...

Mail laid on his nice new expensive sofa, nude, an equally naked blonde on top of him. Their limbs entangled, all the redhead could do was focus on breathing; his tongue had swelled uncomfortably, a lump of tissue and coagulates organizing a benign tumor of clotting... so the bleeding was under control.

Mello contentedly blanketed the redhead, chest to chest, dick to dick, there was nothing poetic about their current lay together. This wasn't the kind of intimacy someone would want to read or write about. This wasn't some bullshit Harlequin 'take me, I'm yours' shenanigan.

This was the Industry at work.

This was a bonus for a lowly factory worker with a meek payroll.

This was heaven for an atheist.

Mello stretched out on top of a confused and needy redhead, fingers threading scarlet locks and poisonous lips whispering words of encouragement and praise and sacrifice all in one breath.

And all Mail wanted was that lump in his tongue to go away. His mouth ached dully, and he twitched the severed muscles in his tongue, playing with the sensation of split and pulled and irritated nerves that were slowly dying off. "Tired," he finally managed to say, not sure if the blonde would allow him rest; not even caring but still wanting to voice his desire.

Mello buried his face against the redhead's neck and spoke almost mechanically: _"Until a person finds something to fight for, he'll settle for something to fight against. We fight the System."_

Closing his eyes, mind not ready to process more than it already had, Mail repeated the word "tired."

"Then sleep, Matt," Mello said simply, bringing both hands to Mail's face, using them to cover his eyes. "Sleep all you need. You did your part."

...

Mail awoke hours later, but he hardly felt rested. His eyes burned upon opening, and he was unnervingly cold. For a moment, he shut his eyes and curled up, wishing for a disembodied figure to cover him with warmth, but none came; and when he realized this he finally forced himself up. Looking around, he almost forgot where he was. This place hardly seemed familiar, too posh and pristine and luxurious for something he ever imagined for himself.

But then he recalled where he was, where he'd gotten the material possessions that had mesmerized him only hours ago. But something felt... different, wrong, and terribly off-putting.

It dawned on him too quickly... that the blonde wasn't in sight.

"Mells?" He tried, grimacing at the soreness in his mouth that ached more than it had the previous night. "Mello!" he tried again, louder. Getting up, he began to search. "Hello? Anybody there?"

He looked for blonde hair and blue eyes. He looked for nudity and uniform and everything in between. But he found nothing.

His home, fuller than ever, it felt so empty.

But, wasn't it always better to be alone? Wasn't it always _safer_?

Conflict churned in his mind like the hips of a gyrating stripper, and he felt nauseous. Heading to the bathroom, he dug through a cabinet and found it loaded with pharmaceutical remedies. He glanced over the small bottles one by one, looking for a cure to whatever might be wrong.

In the end, he shut the cabinet without taking any medicine; then he took a piss and wandered to his room. To the closet, he ventured, finding his clothes neatly hung up... and Mello's clothes completely gone.

Frowning, he dressed himself in his IND uniform, pulling his boots on last. Then he walked around aimlessly, unsure of what to do.

He didn't have to go to work -someone else was covering for him.

He didn't know of any assignments he might have to do for the Industry.

He didn't have Mello around to tell him anything enlightening.

He felt helpless -_No_. He didn't quite know what he was feeling anymore. He just vaguely acknowledged that his tongue was sore and his home was filled with things he didn't really want or need.

He soon found himself in the kitchen, grasping the phone he'd been given for purposes of convenience in dealing with the Suicide Hotline, and he paced in circles around the marble table that had been cleared and wiped clean by unseen hands during his restless slumber.

"Where are you, Mello?" he found himself asking, fingers twitching and twiddling around the phone.

Still pacing, fingers impulsively moving, rubbing and tapping anxiously at the phone, Mail's vision strayed to the clock above the counter.

_10:31 AM_

He paced more, then stole another look at the clock.

_10:41 AM_

More pacing and flooding anxiety.

_10:45 AM_

Time was just moving too slow for this redhead's preference, and he nearly jumped out of his skin with the phone rang, chirping, demanding him to answer. And answer, he did. Putting that phone to his ear, a small bubble of hope formed: hope that Mello's voice might be on the other end; hope that he'd know what he was supposed to do now; hope that he'd find himself feeling a little less hollow on the inside.

_"Hello, Matt."_

But that voice... It was not one that he'd ever heard before. It was low and monotonous, yet it commanded an air of authority... but this voice was not that of the blonde he so strangely missed.

"Who's this?" Mail asked, palm sweaty against the spine of the phone.

_"Don't worry about that right now. At exactly 11 AM, you will leave, head to the nearest laundromat, blind yourself, and be seated. Then I'll take it from there."_

"Who is this? Do you know where Mello is? Does this have something to do with the Industry?"

_"... Matt, there is no Industry. It does not exist."_

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll do as you say -meet you at the laundromat- but I want answers. No more riddles. What the fuck is going on? Why me? What am I expected to do? Tell me everything, and I'll be compliant."

_"Fair enough." _Dead air followed this simple sentence; the line had gone dead, disconnected.

Mail looked at the clock once more.

_10:50 AM_

He'd be leaving in ten minutes. He ran a hand through his hair and started pacing again. Some part of his mind reasoned that if he kept busy and active, he'd be less stressed. -This part of his mind was wrong, but he remained oblivious to that fact.

His pacing did halt, however, when his phone rang yet again. "Hello?" he greeted eagerly, deciding that this curious caller might be the same as his previous one.

He was wrong. Unfortunately. Much to his dismay, the voice at the other end was another sniveling bitch with a sob story... Only, this one was a man, unlike Misa-Something had been.

This man...

_"H-Hello? This is the Suicide Hotline, right? I-I've never called something like this before, but... I found the number printed in the newspaper. And I found it tacked to the wall at work. And I saw it on the side of a bus. And... after seeing it so many times, I finally decided to call."_

Mail sighed, eyes darting back to the clock. "Alright, but I've got things to do in a few minutes. So, just give me your name, tell me your story -briefly, and then do what you gotta do. Can you do it all in, like, eight minutes?"

_"Wait, you want me to die in eight minutes?!"_

"Or sooner," Mail said offhandedly, pressing his sore tongue against the back of his teeth, testing the feeling and deciding he liked it... even though it hurt -like a child who won't stop poking a bruise or picking a scab.

_"I... don't think I want to die, really. I mean, I just joined up with this underground group called the Industry. My life's not great, but I don't think I want to die..."_

"Then, why are you calling me?"

_"Because, I- I don't know. I thought... I thought- I'm so sorry! This isn't costing you money or wasting your time, is it?"_

"Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do. Honestly, I want you to have a reason to fucking live, but sometimes, life's not worth it. It's not my job to decide this shit for you. It's not. Quite the opposite, really. And I have to go, or I'm going to be late for a... meeting."

_"Oh... Okay. But can I just tell you why I was considering suicide? Please. I need to tell someone."_

Mail sighed and his lungs inflated almost painfully, burning; he suddenly recalled his craving for nicotine and smoke. He wanted a damn cigarette and he was getting agitated. "Fuck, whatever," he murmured.

_"Just recently, I became an employee to this thing -this group- called the Industry. It made sense at first, and I kinda liked it. I felt like I was doing something important with my life. After years of wasting time and doing nothing, I was finally doing something, you know? And... last night, I... I killed a man. Afterwards, I headed to the basement of a church. Everyone acted like it was fine, but I don't think it was. Do you think I can get out of the Industry? Do you think it's safe? What should I do?"_

Mail gritted his teeth together, concentrating hard on the voice and wondering if this sorry sack of human waste might be one of the blood-strewn individuals he'd seen the night before at White Chape. Regardless, his eyes once again wandered over to the clock.

_10:59 AM_

"Wha'd you say your name is?"

_"I didn't say my name. Because, the Industry gave me new one, and I don't know if I'm supposed to use that one or my birth name."_

Mail sighed heavily.

_11:00 AM_

"I can't help you. But I can tell you this much... There is... no Industry. Do what you've gotta do, and don't be a pussy, but above all else, don't be anyone's bitch."

And Mail hung up, tossed the phone carelessly onto the counter, straightened his jacket, and headed out the door. He vaguely wondered if he'd done the right thing, but he didn't have time to dwell on the matter for long, too busy running outside to his car... only to find the windows all busted and the tires slashed.

"Oh, fucking shit. Fuck me," he groaned, biting his tongue and causing it to bleed. Tasting the blood, he swore again and wondered how quickly he needed to get to the damn laundromat...

Running an exasperated hand through his hair and looking around nervously, something shiny caught his eye- something shiny and new.

Midnight blue and chrome, a gorgeous motorcycle called his name. The keys in the ignition, he couldn't help wondering if it was another gift from the Industry.

Deciding not to think and to just act instead, he jogged a short distance, approaching the bike.

He'd never ridden one before, but he imagined that it couldn't be too hard. Balance and motor skills.

Slipping one leg over and using the other to flick up the kickstand, he held the handle grips and balanced the bike between his thighs, surprised at just how heavy it was. Regardless, he turned the key and kicked it in gear; he heard and felt the rumble of the bike revving to life and his heart fluttered.

He'd never rode a regular bicycle in his entire life, and now he was about to drive a fucking motorcycle.

He wondered if he had some sort of death wish, what with his behavior for the past couple days.

Pushing that thought aside, he accelerated. The wind was strong, whipping his hair and burning his eyes, but he felt more alive than he ever had as he pulled out of the lot and raced down a lane, turning a corner and reaching a straight stretch.

If he had to describe the bike in one word, he'd use the word '_fluent_.'

He arrived and parked after a fair drive, flicking the kickstand down and getting off.

"That went well," he said proudly, looking at the bike with unbridled affection before heading into the laundromat.

According the hours printed on the front window glass, it should be locked up, but putting one hand on the door and pushing it open, it clearly wasn't.

"Hey?" He greeted, entering and looking around. He walked to the center of the room and seated himself on a hard plastic chair. Next to the chair, atop a small stack of outdated Reader's Digest, was a blindfold not unlike the one he'd used before under Mello's command.

"Put the blindfold on," came that strange monotonous voice from before: the one that had instructed him to come.

Mail couldn't help looking first; he wanted to know what and who he was dealing with. Scanning the room and looking the general direction of the voice, he saw a figure hunched over, wearing baggy jeans and a white shirt beneath a jacket; the jacket's IND logo was embossed and glossy, almost too fancy for this strange man who wore no shoes or boots -_barefoot, like Mello. _Nothing about this man seemed normal, and Mail was wary. Especially at noticing how a wild black mane flared out from a rather cartoonish mask that veiled this man's face.

Mail put the blind on warily, knotting it behind his head. "You said you've give me answers."

"Don't speak unless I tell you too, Matt. Things will progress more efficiently if you behave and do as you're told."

This time, Mail responded with nothing more than a nod.

"You want to know what's going on. I can answer that easily. -Generations of protagonists are working hard, washing cars, running cash registers, coaching children to run at length and catch balls; people are mining coal, fixing cars, hauling trash -you get the point. These people do what the System tells them to do; these people do what they're told because they're told that it is right. These people die every day without a purpose."

"Sir," Mail interjected, trying to use the same respect he recalled that Mello had given Watari. "Sir, how is that any different than what the Industry is doing to people?"

And the stranger answered, tone unchanging. "The Industry at least provides a valid purpose. The things we do, it's always for a greater good, and someone is always benefiting. By preventing excess consumption, we create an altercation in supply and demand. By demanding less, supply increases. Prices go down. Poor people live more efficiently. By removing those who hinder progress and waste space, we are preserving those that truly matter: those who will stop wars or cure cancer. By doing these small trivial tasks, everyone is contributing the the greater good."

"I... -But, what does this have to do with anything? And, why me?"

The man released a heavy breath; the sound echoed from the confines of his mask. "To be honest, I did not want you; I wanted a young man named Nate. I see no value or potential in anything you have to offer. Even now, you are speaking without permission, and I do not like that. But, Mello wanted you, and he has given credence to the Industry his entire life. He knows what he is doing. I do not believe he would act ill toward our goals."

"Why do you fight the System?"

"The System is everything we stand against, Matt. They give people hope and then tell them that there is nothing to be hopeful for. They teach people to waste and ruin. We do the exact opposite."

"But... what about my excess rewards? My home was robbed, and then it was filled, and-"

"And now you understand that the things you own do not determine the value of life. Correct? You acknowledge how useless and empty those possessions are. In other words, for the first time in your life, you own things that do not own or identify you."

And Mail was speechless. Because, this strange man, in some twisted way, was correct.

"Matt, you can turn away from the Industry at any time. But remember, working for us, even a little work could mean saving a life. Don't you want to save lives, Matt?"

Unable to form words, Mail lowered his head.

"Matt... I know what you did to your brother all those years ago. And while I know it bothers you, it shouldn't."

Mail tensed at the words, suddenly feeling too many emotions at once; he was beginning to feel ill. "Who are you?" he finally managed to ask.

There was a pause. A very long pause. So long that Mail wondered if the strange masked man had left him. Then: "I am L..."

...

* * *

**/There we go./**


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **Hey, just wanted to wish everyone a good new year! -Also, this chapter is a bit rushed, but the next one will be better. Promise!

…

* * *

"I am L..."

The man introduced himself, as if the mere letter held all the answers and credence to the Christian God, but to Mail, it didn't. And suddenly, the redhead's brain began to work to connect loose ends. "L... there has to be a valid reason for calling me here," he said. "Was it to check up on me? Make sure I'm tending the Suicide Hotline? Maybe you want to know if I'm worthy of your cause? I don't know, but the fact that you're calling any shots leads me to believe that you're some sort of big shot. And I didn't see you at White Chapel yesterday, and Watari specifically said that the 'activity manager' didn't make it. So... that's you, right?"

L was silent for a moment before humming absently. "You're more astute than I credited. Perhaps I might find you a task more suitable."

Mail said nothing at first but quickly found himself asking: "Wait, sir... How do you know... about me? About what I've done? About-?"

"Matt, from this moment on, please assume that I know everything; it will take away many pending queries that could warrant unnecessary stress."

A nod from Mail came, followed by another question. "So... what happened to my car? Someone trashed it," Mail asked.

L shrugged and removed his mask, setting it aside and moving closer to the redhead, looking him over from head to toe. "It was not 'trashed,' as you so eloquently put it; it was _vandalized_. Another employee of the Industry grew restless and requested a higher workload. And, to reward him for his numerous services in the past, I have tasked him to target predetermined icons of the System. One of those icons: a vague description that could have easily matched up to thirty vehicles; it was a mere unfortunate coincidence that your car was the one targeted. However, once the deed was done, I made amends by providing another form of transportation..."

"The motorcycle," Mail interjected, only to be kicked hard in the face; his head whipped to the side and a small sound of surprise escaped his lips.

Like Mello had before, L was quick to explain his actions: "I'm starting to really dislike your fluent mouth. Please shut it at least until I am done talking. It is rather difficult to talk and listen at the same time, and it's in your best interest to pay attention."

And Mail said nothing, finding himself momentarily sated with the answers provided and the stinging sensation left on his reddening cheek.

L continued, his tone bored and bland and uncaring, though his next few words nearly portrayed unbidden and turbulent enthusiasm. "I actually have an interesting proposition for you." As he spoke, L curiously circled Mail, stopping behind him and rewarding his compliance to being quiet with an awkward pat on the head. "Surely you've noticed Mello's absence by now. Since he recruited you, it was his obligation to prepare you for your assigned job; he did his job, and now he is moving on. However, I've given it some thought, and considering the successful little kidney-escapade, I've considered allowing you to continue under his tutelage. Is this something you desire, Matt?"

Mail opened his mouth to speak but closed it without a word; instead of vocalizing his answer, he gave a nod.

L ruffled his hand through scarlet locks in a show of praise. "Very well. But first there are things that need to be done. I've already assigned Mello a solo act for his next job, but I'm willing to change that. However, in order for that to happen, someone else must be assigned the task in his place. For this, I choose Near. His real name is Nate River, but upon induction, he will be addressed by the former. -Matt, I want you to recruit him."

Mail hesitated, but after waiting several seconds and realizing that L was not going to continue to talk without prompt, he spoke up. "How? Would I do it like Mello did me?"

"No."

"Then...?"

"Near is a much more simple and complacent individual; he'll be much more objective and easy to reason with than you were, I'm sure. Even so, I do not believe you are up to par for the task...-"

"But-!"

"_Yet_. Matt, please stop interrupting." With that, L's fingers curled and he yanked harshly at Mail's hair, reprimanding him. "Your new name is Matt. You know this, and the fact that you haven't denied it shows that you've accepted it to an extent, but I'm sure in your System-driven mind you're still categorizing yourself as the same individual that couldn't hold the attention of his parents and so selfishly killed his own brother. -But that is not the case, and you need to acknowledge that. You're a young adult now, Matt. You're no longer a child waiting to be coddled. You've grown up. You're still learning, but you're not a child. You'd do well to drop the pretense of your former life and embrace the new expansion of your world. Do this. Accept yourself as Matt. Wipe away your former identity. Do this, and then continue with your mission to tend the Suicide Hotline. And after you've taken 100 calls, I'll allow you to work with Mello."

The redhead listened to what he was told, and his head buzzed with the effort to take it all in. "Yes, sir. That sounds fair," he found himself saying.

Then he heard scuffling. The sound of bare feet shuffling across the floor, getting further from him. L was leaving, but he stopped shy of exiting to say: "Oh, and Matt... About those 100 calls, you might want to get home and wait by the phone."

"Why? Am I supposed to expect an important call?"

L's tone took on an ominous lilt uncharacteristic of his earlier behavior. "No... But the sooner you finish your work and move on to assist him, the better. I can't promise he'll be alive by the end of the week. He's most likely in a... compromising position."

The redhead found himself holding his breath after hearing that, trying to process and make sense of what he just heard. "L?" He called. "L! Hey! What's Mello getting into? Where is he? Is he in immediate danger?" When he received no answer, he groaned and kicked his feet against the hard floor. As thoughts flooded his mind in a state of disjuncture, he voiced them. "Gotta get home... Mello... One hundred calls... Dammit."

He got up blindly and stumbled toward the door, tearing off the blindfold along the way.

He had to get home and get to that damn phone.

...

Using the motorcycle for transportation and arriving home quickly, he raced inside, barely noticing or caring for the fact that once again members of the Industry were flooding his home. He ran straight for the counter where he'd left the phone and checked for missed calls, but there were none.

"Ring, damn you..." he muttered despairingly, trying to to futilely make the phone ring with a desperate caller.

For the first time in his life, the number 100 seemed relentlessly high.

Still in the dark about the mysterious ways of the Industry, he couldn't help wondering what would become of the blonde he'd so quickly grown attached to. He thought of Charles -_Arvio_- whom had suffered death and a kidney extraction, and he wondered if something similar could or would happen to Mello. The thought made him ill. He had to do something... but what?

Clutching the phone tighter in his grasp, an idea began to form.

...

* * *

**/There we go. So, Mello's not in this chapter, but we know that where ever he is, it's not necessarily a good place to be. More coming soon./**


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Dog of the Industry

**Summary: **It's almost funny how the need to do laundry can lead to so much excitement. Poor, Mail Jeevas never thought he'd be involuntarily pulled into a world of underground criminal activity. "Welcome to the Industry."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note: **Mail starts going by the name Matt in chis chapter. Also, this chapter probably needs a shitload of editing, but here it is.

…

* * *

Clutching the phone tighter in his grasp, an idea began to form.

...

One hundred calls, that was the plan. No more and no less. Matt vainly checked himself over in a mirror, combing his hair and smoothing wrinkles from his clothing -this is something he never would have done: Correction, this is something _Mail_ never would have done, but he was facing a whole new world with new rules. And if he had to forget Mail for a little bit to save Mello, then he decided that he could.

Mello, the blonde arrogant fool and near-rapist who so casually plucked him from a laundromat on a seemingly normal Friday night made whimsical and brash all in a breath. Mello, with his blue eyes and sinful body and confidence, had ensnared this redhead with such little effort; it would be a crime _not_ to go after him, rescue him, save his sorry ass from a fate worse than chocolate-induced cellulite. After the hell, the murder, the kidney- after all they'd been through -the chloroformed bed, the chemical bath, the razor-filled morsels...

Mail had always been this scared individual who survived purely by feigning indifference and hiding behind the things he owned. But Matt was an employee of the Industry. Matt fired a gun (with poor accuracy). Matt swiped a kidney from a foreigner and offered it to a little girl that will now live to grow up and be a happy individual; and like all good comic-book heroes, Matt could sit back, lurk in the shadows and take pride in that knowledge, requiring no substantial reward.

Mail killed his twin brother and never got over it.

Matt saved a life.

Two people sharing the same appearance. Almost like having a twin all over again, but with less boundaries and absolutely no secrets.

-Matt made sure his appearance was quite proper as he slipped his laminated IND card into his pocket and grabbed the phone needed for the Hotline. Then he was out the door, taking matters into his own hands.

He had two calls already. Misa, and that other Industry member. Two calls down. Only 98 to go.

It was a weekday. Some people were at work, and others were spending the day in the sun. Then again, it was still early, and being a weekday, the younger population was surely in school.

Going on foot, Matt trekked half a block from his home to a trailer park where nearly a dozen mobile living establishments were corroding but still being lived in. Children _-too young for pre-K-_ were playing around a sprinkler and small inflatable pool. They eyed the redhead warily as he approached.

A small girl with blonde curls quickly placed her hands over her bathing suit top, adding an extra cover where her nipples were.

Looking at her wide eyes, thin frame, bruised arms, and the way her legs crossed anxiously, anyone could detect abuse and possible molestation, but Matt was not here to save her. (_Maybe some other time?_) He pushed her appearance far from his mind and approached the rickety structure of a trailer. He knocked on a screen door that rattled angrily under his touch. Hearing hushed voices through the thin walls, he knew adults were inside. Matt raised his voice a little louder than necessary and called: "Jehovah's Witness!"

More mumbling met his ears, and before long the door opened just a crack, just enough for Matt to meet one of the stranger's eyes. "We're not interested. Go away," this woman said simply, voice deep as if she'd been smoking for at least a decade.

"I need to ask you a couple questions, miss."

"I don't see any pamphlets. You're not with social services, are you? My kids are fine, and-"

"No, I just wanna talk to you. Actually, not even that. I just want to give you my phone number."

"Why? Who are you?"

"I'm Matt, okay? I'm... holding a sort of contest. 100th caller could win a new tv, or couch, or...- There's a lot of prizes, miss."

The door slowly opened to reveal an obese scraggly creature with large droopy cheeks that came down past her chin, and long saggy tits that rested on her belly in a way that reminded the redhead of a basset hound's ears. The fabric of her dress stretched over her mass in an unsightly manner, and the pattern made it look almost like a it had been made from a recycled table cloth.

Beckoning the redhead inside, the woman let the door swing shut on its own before motioning Matt to take a seat.

Matt wordlessly declined the offer and watched as the woman searched for a pen. Finding none, she grabbed a ketchup bottle and sloppily scripted the phone number Matt rattled off, squirting ketchup onto a disposable plate.

"Now, tell me why you're doing this, Matt."

"Well, miss, to be honest I just needed to get rid of some excess baggage. -The more calls I get, the better. So, feel free to give it out. To anyone. No kids though."

The woman said something, but Matt didn't listen; he was already heading out the door. Upon leaving, he waved to the little kids out front and grabbed a rusted bicycle without brakes, mounting it and pushing off.

From there, he kept going. He didn't even consider stopping when a kid yelled that his bike was being stolen -not that he had brakes to properly stop with. He had more pressing matters to attend.

School.

High school, to be exact. No, he wasn't necessarily attending; he'd already graduated early and with high honors, but he knew enough to know that it was one of the most despairing places for someone to be. Depressed teachers loathing their job and all it entailed; students dreading school work and fretting over clubs and popularity and the opposite sex; the minority being bullied into near-nonexistence.

It. Was. Hell.

Nobody was safe in high school. Ground zero. Bitchtopia.

A concentration camp for adolescents, bent on training them to conform.

Narrowing his eyes at the mere memories he'd gained from his time in high school, Matt pedaled the bike all the way there and left it next to a rack of others -Huffy, Razor, Mongoose, etc. Then, without any qualms whatsoever, he entered the big double doors out front.

It was around 1:45 PM. School would be releasing students at 3:00... and for the next hour and fifteen minutes, he was going to recklessly ruin everyone's day and make his number known.

...

Roaming the halls as he did, teachers thought him to be a student; students thought he was an older student or a young student-teacher; those higher on the chain of command -principal, nurse, and custodian (because, yes, even the janitor who scrubbed with a filthy mop was a rank higher than the lowly teachers and substitutes and lunch ladies)- even they failed to question the redhead's attendance and business, looking at his clothes and well-groomed hair and subconsciously deciding that he belonged in some manner.

A few people did ask, though he easily lied through his teeth and dodged questions or knocked books from someone's hands. -He decided, desperate times called for desperate measures, and no one would be spared.

He casually tripped one kid in the hall.

To the nerdy child in gym who asked if he was new, he responded with: "Kid, there's a ball. Watch your face." This was followed by a bright red dodge ball careening the student in the side of the head as Matt walked away, heading into the locker rooms, slipping into a stall and biding his time, checking his phone for missed calls and finding none, much to his dismay.

In the locker room was a fag gym teacher in too-tight, too-short shorts, a button-down shirt and a whistle. This man was just a little too close to the young injured athlete that sat on a bench, nursing a swelling ankle.

Matt looked the scene over, deciding what to do.

The student grit his teeth and pressed an ice pack to the purpling flesh as the teacher began to rub his back firmly, hand moving in wide circles and dipping lower until low enough to pinch at the elastic waistband of the teen's own shorts. "Coach, I don't think I can play in the game this Friday."

The gym teacher -ne, _coach_- visibly tensed up at hearing that, muscles stiffening under the starched fabrics of his clothes. "Fair enough, you're replaceable," he said sternly.

The athlete looked a mix of baffled and worried, incredulous. "No, wait, coach! I'll be better by next game, I swear!"

"If you can't play, you can't play. Though, I'm not adverse to persuasion..." Saying this, 'Coach' hiked his leg up and perched it on the bench; from this position, his crotch was nearly face-level with the student who simply turned away and lowered his head.

"Sorry, coach; I should see the nurse."

Bringing his foot back down and grunting in irritation, the coach murmured: "Good luck getting a good recommendation for college scouts." With that, he turned and jogged away.

When the coach disappeared from sight, the athlete covered his eyes with one hand and punched the other into the adjacent wall two-three-_four_ times.

It's only then that Matt left the stall and approached the student. "Tough break," he said casually.

"You have no idea. My old man nearly went pro. I don't know if Coach is gonna bench me or just kick me off the team. Either way, my dad's gonna be so pissed! Fuck!" He punctuated his last interjection with yet another punch.

Matt shrugged. "I can help, y'know."

Slowly removing his hand from his face, the athlete looked at Matt as if he had all the answers, as if he himself was a savior of sorts. "Wha'cha got? Steroids? Pain meds? Something to boost my adrenaline? Fuck, I'm desperate here."

"I can only offer you a phone number. Call it after school."

"What's the catch?" For a meat-headed athlete, the teen was skeptical, possibly intelligent by normal standards.

"No catch," Matt answered coolly, leaning against the wall and slipping his hands into his pockets. "Just have some of your friends and teammates call as well."

"A-Alright. Give me the number. I'll do anything at this point. I can't face dad if I get booted. I can't let coach and my team down. I can't let the school down. I just... I need to succeed, win, go to college, get out of this shithole of a town, and do something with my life."

"I know. All the more reason to call."

Matt curtly bade farewell and was off again, but this time he headed to the Computer Lab. He sat in front of a computer and signed in under the principal's name: which was nothing too difficult since the redhead had been a tech whiz for most of his life... and the same principal had been at the same school with all the same passwords for the last decade or so.

Dumbass.

Signing in, he typed up a brief memo and sent it to every teacher and representative available, all of which gave little more than his phone number and a list of appropriate times to call. Once that was accomplished, Matt decided he'd finish up since the dismissal bell would be ringing shortly. And how was he going to finish?

In the words of the Mortal Kombat franchise: '_FINISH HIM._'

No, perhaps Matt was not going to pull off some devastating kill-move, but he was a firm believer in another popular phrase: '_Go big, or go home._' And Matt couldn't go home just yet.

So, first up, he had to gain some 'cool cred,' as it were.

He easily navigated the halls and found himself inside an empty art room, from which he 'borrowed' a small tin of paint and a medium soft-bristled brush. He carried his supplies to the main hallway and boldly painted _MAtt WuZ hEre_ in a tawny forest green that splattered gloriously against the eggshell-creme washed walls.

Leaving his incriminating things at the scene of the crime and heading to the B section of lockers, he located the a locker in the far back with a broken lock and, grabbing the handle and ramming his shoulder into it, it came open easily enough. He looted around inside and was fortunate enough to find a Varsity jacket of some student or another, and after removing his own black jacket, he slipped the yellow and navy Letterman jacket on over his IND uniform, donning a bulky pair of amber-lensed shades from the pocket. Then he ran a hand through his hair to mess it up a bit, giving him a slightly more casual look.

The look of a high school student that would have kicked his own scrawny ass a couple years ago.

Next he made a quick trip to see the custodian, an aging man who walked with a prominent limp and an indefinite scowl; this man almost never made eye contact, and his speech ability was almost nonexistent, but in the past Matt -_or rather, Mail_- as a scholar had taken comfort in the lack of confrontation that came with the man's company.

Matt approached him fearlessly, Varsity jacket too large on his frame and shades dominating his facial features. "Roger, sir," he greeted. "You probably don't remember me, but I went to school here a few years ago..."

The custodian -Roger- looked at him, eyes rounded and face puckered into something akin to a slackened smirk; his scrunched up face and too-long nose sported too-loose skin that draped over his otherwise thin face, and he smiled crookedly like a wilting jack-o-lantern. And he did speak, voice hoarse and scratchy and full of age, breath foul like road kill and curdled milk as he said: "I remember you well..." and then he grabbed his big jangling keyring and held it out for the redhead to see, and on it was a small laminated card with a hole punched in the corner and a metal crook holding it to the keyring.

And that card, graphitized so cleverly, it sported the three letters that the redhead was already so familiar with.

And for some reason, that brought a sense of relief to Matt. "Roger," he breathed as he tossed his head back and patted the old man on the shoulder, "I need beverages. Drinks. Something. And I sent out memos. I need those copied and in my hand by the time the bell rings... Is that asking too much?" After rattling off what he required, he suddenly felt selfish and ignorant for asking so much from an old man.

But Roger just wheezed and clamped his keyring to his belt loop and gave a nod. And then he was gone.

Matt took that as an affirmative and decided he could trust fellow employees of the Industry...

Then, checking the clock and noting the time, he headed outside to the open courtyard that neatly merged the school's entrance to the parking lot. He perched lazily on a cement stoop adjacent to the statue of the school's mascot: a big grey concrete bulldog with a nasty underbite. Then he adjusted his sunglasses and looked around, trying not to appear anxious for what he was about to do... But this was harder than it seemed because Matt might have a chance at pulling this off, but Mail never would -not in a million years.

Just minutes away from the chime of the dismissal bell, Roger emerged from the building, pushing a cart down a ramp. He parked the cart next to the redhead and handed him a large stack of papers, all of which held his phone number.

"Thanks, Roger. You have no idea how much-"

"There is no Industry," Roger interrupted dismissively before walking away, leaving the cart and heading back toward the school.

Matt took a moment to look at the cart, seeing how it was stocked full of 6packs of various sodas. He slipped a Dr Pepper from a white plastic ring and popped it open, leaning against the giant mascot and looking up to see it's big bulldog face. Taking a sip from his soda can, he made a growling face at the mascot, attempting to mimic its fierce expression to entertain himself.

Finally, the bell rang, the doors opened and students filed out in a heaping flood of humans, all loud and chattering. A sort of commonplace organized chaos.

Matt put two fingers to his lips and whistled loud, gaining the attention of the crowd. He tried to appear cool and confident as he internally fought the butterflies in his stomach. Once he had everyone's eyes on him, he took another sip of his soda and proceeded to wave a fistful of papers. "This weekend! Party, my place!"

A lone person off to the side cheered but everyone else remained quiet, some murmuring to one another. One brave individual yelled "And who dafuq are you?!" Another person mentioned the painted graffiti that was still fresh and wet on the wall.

Still, Matt had been afraid of that question; he'd be lying to state otherwise. In the movies, everyone always got excited and on board for parties and it looked so easy, but realistically, he should have expected this. So, he dropped his soda can -syrupy liquid spazzing and foaming and making a mess all over the nice smooth sidewalk- and, keeping the papers in his hand, he scaled the mascot statue and seated himself on its back, hoping he didn't look as idiotic as he felt and hoping twice as much that the sun was enough of an excuse for the redness of his face as he summoned the courage to answer.

"I'm Matt. I've got beer and music and a good place to party. My place. Friday night. Anybody who's anybody is gonna be there." Then, he got to his feet, standing on the surprisingly narrow spine of the statue and praying not to fall off. He very nearly lost his balance, tossing his arms out for balance and accidentally releasing the papers that flew in every which and way, fluttering slowly to the ground.

By the time Matt had steadied himself and caught his breath, he looked down and noticed everyone scrambling to pick up a paper and grab a soda, and he smiled.

"Oh, and if you're going to come..." he yelled to the crowd, " Call me. You have to call first and receive a password. It's pretty tight-end and on the down-low. No party crashers." With that, started climbing down the statue, getting half way and falling the rest of the way. He tried to play it off casually as he stood back and took on a relaxed stance and watched the crowd dissipate as others got onto the bus, bikes, and in cars. When the lot had emptied, he grabbed at the rickety old bike he rode in on and decided against taking it home.

It would take too long, and he was anticipating at least a few calls. So he left the bike, ran out in traffic and baited the first car that came his way. He faced it head on and waved his arms sporadically. The driver slowed to a stop before rolling down a window and peeking his head out and asking "need a ride?", to which Matt nodded and quickly approached the passenger's side.

Getting in and buckling up, Matt slumped into the seat and murmured "just across town, not too far. Thanks, man, you're a life saver." And he closed his eyes and waited for movement, waited to get home and for necessary phone calls to come in.

But the aforementioned events needed to happen in that order, and no movement was felt, so Matt wasn't getting home, and calls weren't coming in.

"Something wrong?" he asked, erecting his posture and cracking an eye open to look at the driver.

The driver, a young brunette man with narrow hazel eyes that gleamed red in the sunlight... he looked at Matt with a knowing smile and said "you're in a hurry. Anything I can do to help?"

"Erm, uh..." Matt stammered awkwardly, feeling bashful and clownish in the jacket and sunglasses that weren't his. He felt like a costumed fool, a court jester. "I just... need to get home fast."

"Ever do any favors for anyone, Mail?" the brunette asked, placing a hand on the redhead's leg and squeezing lightly.

The redhead drew in a breath and tried to scoot away to put distance between himself and the brunette, but he was buckled in tight and could move very little. "What kind of favors?" He found himself asking, though that was the second thought that came to mind; the first thing he'd wanted to vocalize was the name. Suddenly, 'Mail' didn't feel right.

Mail wasn't part of the Industry. Mail didn't have obligations. Mail was nothing to nobody.

Matt had a plan and a goal and a friend to save. Matt was anticipating phone calls and a Friday night party...

Only a few days old, and Matt had done more than Mail had in a lifetime.

The brunette's wandering hand and charming voice stole the redhead from his reverie. "Nevermind, Mail. I've... got a bit of a bone to pick with you. Ever hear of Misa Amane? Young and famous, an up-and-coming model and actress... Yeah, sure you have. She called you..."

"Misa-something?" Matt half-whispered; the other half was just empty breath.

"Misa Amane. Pretty, blonde, blue eyes. Fairly easy on the eyes. She called you... and now she's dead. Explain it to me; tell me what happened. What did you say to her?" As he pressed his query, the brunette's hand snaked between the redhead's legs, groping too tightly and causing a significant amount of discomfort.

Matt grunted and closed his eyes tightly, wanting very much for the situation to resolve itself, but it was all too clear that such a thing wasn't going to happen. "She called... for help... a-about a boyfriend problem," he managed to say, eyes squinting tight and brows knitting together. "I was busy, so I told her to hurry up. I-I couldn't have known she'd shoot herself!" He defended himself the best he could given the situation and the incomparable amount of stress he was under. And he was both surprised and relieved when he felt the pressure on his boybits diminish, and he sighed in relief.

The brunette drew himself away and hummed thoughtfully. "My dad works with the police, you know."

"I'm sorry. I'm just dealing with a lot of shit right now, okay?" Matt said listlessly.

"You let her die, and I'm supposed to be okay with that? I mean, I didn't love her, but my family's pretty torn up about it. So, let's make a deal."

"Shit..."

"Listen close, Mail-"

"Call me Matt."

"Listen close, _Matt_... My dad's excellent at his job; that job is his life. He's a private investigator of sorts; he works with the police -not under them. He's been trying to catch a group of rogue vigilantes that call themselves the _Industry_, or something like that. But dad's not getting anywhere with the case, so I've taken it upon myself to help..."

Matt's words were automatic, borderline robotic: a response made with figurative cookie-cutters. "There is no Industry."

"Whatever," the brunette dismissed, "say what you want, but I know you were recently recruited. I know where you live, and I'm not above blackmailing. -All I'm asking is that you help to get me a meeting with the leader."

"You mean the activity manager?"

"I mean, whoever it is that calls the shots."

"What makes you think I have any connections?"

"You haven't denied it yet, have you?"

And Matt felt caught like a kid with his hand stuck in a cookie jar. All he could do was avert his gaze and say: "...Just take me home."

And the brunette obliged with Matt occasionally pointing out the direction they needed to go. Upon pulling in and parking, the brunette offered a devilishly charming smile and said "My name's Light, by the way."

"I'm Matt."

"Whatever you say, Mail."

The redhead was quiet for a moment as he unbuckled and placed his hand on the handle, not yet opening the door. "Light? You... had no idea where I lived until we got here, did you?"

And Light shrugged. "Not really, but that point is moot right now, don't you think?"

"And how did you know I had anything to do with the Industry?"

"You know, for a top notch underground organization, the Industry isn't too bright, Mail."

"What do you mean?"

"For starters, you all wear the same uniform. Even under the jacket, I can tell what you're wearing. Plus, there's a website where the Industry keeps tabs of all its members, what they're supposed to do, and how likely they are to succeed. There's a whole ranking system and everything."

Hearing this, Matt could feel his heart beating in his throat. He couldn't think of what to say. Fuck, he couldn't fathom what he was supposed to _think_! And just as he opened his mouth, surely about to say something unintelligible, a familiar chirping sound met his ears. His heart dropped like a bomb from his throat to the deepest part of his stomach, and he felt sick.

His phone was ringing.

The Suicide Hotline.

And, not knowing what else to do, he turned further away from Light and answered, bringing the phone close to his ear and listening to the person on the other line start to yammer, and without a second thought, he responded "no, you are not the 100th caller. You are not entitled to my tv or couch. And if that's all you give a damn about, you should kill yourself. Do it. Now. I'm short on time, make it quick."

Hanging up moments later, Matt met Light's intense stare. And all Light said was "Your secret's safe. I just want that meeting."

_97 calls to go._

And the phone rang again. Before Matt could answer that time, Light beat him to it, took the phone and answered. "Party on Friday? Matt's house? Password?" Light briefly locked eyes with the redhead before getting comfortable, adjusting his seat so that he was reclining comfortably, nearly laying. Then he continued the conversation. "So, why do you want to attend this party? Think it'll be fun? Think you'll get wasted and have sex and party your ass off? Then what? Kill brain cells? Impregnate some innocent woman? Drop out of high school? Get a job to support your girl and the baby you didn't want? Live poorly off of minimum wage and die of some pedestrian flu? Yeah... might as well kill yourself now instead of dying slowly, right?" And the line went dead, and the brunette _laughed_.

_96 calls to go._

To Matt's surprise and horror, Light was actually laughing, borderline hysteric.

"That, that was the most fun I've had in a while. Matt, you and me, we should hang out or something. Here, you take the next call."

And Matt swallowed hard, taking the offered phone. "Light, this isn't a game. Are you fucking bipolar?"

Light shrugged but smiled so innocently. "I've got nothing better to do until you set up that meeting anyways."

Matt groaned and lowered his head, his gaze falling onto his lap. "Just when I think I've got it figured out, this shit happens to me," he murmured.

...

* * *

**/So, lots of stuff going on. Matt's got his number all over the school and with a handful of local trailer park dwellers in an attempt to get more calls; he's expected to throw a party Friday, so that'll be fun. And... Light is going to be figuratively up Matt's ass until a meeting is arranged between him and L. This puts Matt in an interesting predicament, ne? And what of Mello?**

**-FYI, I like the idea of Matt wearing an over-sized varsity jacket, so I just might make him wear it for a while.**

**-Keep an eye on my profile; I'll be putting up a link to some DotI fan art shortly./**


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